James S Potter and the Tales of the Lost
by SGTwhiskeyjack
Summary: BOOK 4/7: When two key figures from James' life at Hogwarts go missing, it is he who starts the year feeling a little lost. If the Hogwarts professors can not stay out of harm's way, who will stand up to protect the students? And when the key to it all is found to be hidden deep within the Forbidden Forest, nightmares from the past will be rear their heads once more. COMPLETE.
1. Prologue

_A/N: We're back! The longer-than-anticipated hiatus was in part due to wanting to have a more concrete plot fleshed out for this one, and in part because the last two weeks I've been wandering around the bush in outback Australia for my work. Not a lot of opportunity to update out there._

 _Two pieces of exciting news - one, that I have already written the first 9 chapters of this story, so you can expect swift updates for the first few weeks. And two, this will be the first story in the series whereby I have actually planned out more than one or two chapters ahead. This time, I've actually got a plot and an ending in mind before I started writing. I've been told that helps..._

 _So I thank you for your patience, dearest readers, and I welcome you back once more. Join me, as we cast out into brave new waters of planning and foresight and blessedly coherent plot lines, and mark uncharted territory in the adventures of James S Potter, together._

 _J_

* * *

Gwendolyn Tuft had never really fit in anywhere. It had first become apparent to her after she started at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, three days after her eleventh birthday.

It hadn't _really_ been because she was Muggleborn. Having started school three years after the fall of Voldemort, people were still rather touchy about that particular subject. Although, she often mused, being a Muggleborn certainly played a part in its own special way.

Ravenclaw had seemed like the perfect fit for her intensely curious mind. But she soon found herself disappointed. While her classmates learned by book and quill, drinking in all that the Professors told them, little Gwendolyn preferred to find things out for herself. To experiment. But long hours locked away in the tower stirred rumours. Little interest in friends, and an open disdain for their blind following of what teachers told them soon turned the student body against her. "Gwendolyn the Weird" they'd called her, after the famous, forty-seven-times-burned witch. Though there was markedly less awe in their voices when it was directed at her.

By the time OWLs had rolled around, she'd failed almost every class in the curriculum. Her Muggleborn mind had yet to lose the wonder of discovery when it came to magic. Hundreds – no, thousands – of ways that it could be used to better their lives assailed her every day. And it had become her duty to uncover them. The libraries and history and latent knowledge that pervaded all of Hogwarts had seemed like the perfect setting.

Until her disregard for the edicts of structured education brought about her ejection from it. Before she'd even finished her sixth year, she was cast out as a lost cause, a hopeless case.

Perhaps she'd have worried about her future prospects, with no notable muggle or magical education to speak of. She might have fretted, had she not been visited that very night by a black-cloaked figure who promised her everything she'd ever wanted, in exchange for the pittance that was her time and her curious mind.

She'd never looked back.

And so now, sometimes she experimented. With more books and knowledge at her fingertips than she'd ever dreamed of. Sometimes she worked, if it could be called that. Sometimes she even got paid. Though rarely did she go hungry. She had colleagues, and she still found she didn't fit in with them in the slightest.

But it was with the job, and this new existence with which she had found herself a home. And so, it didn't bother her that the others still looked at her askance. Or that "Gwendolyn the Weird" hadn't ever really been left behind. Because this life in itself brought her happiness.

As such, it was all the more heartbreaking on the day that it betrayed her.

'But I'm not ready!' she wailed, tearing at strands of her long, dark hair. 'It will be weeks, months, probably before I'm even close.'

Standing in the doorway to her tower was the man they only knew as Dr Raven. He still wore the long, black cloak that gave him his name. Even though most of the feathers had long since fallen from it.

'That is no longer an option, Miss Tuft.' His voice was flat, calm and impassive. There was no way that Gwendolyn could trick herself into thinking he cared. 'The opportunity has arisen. We have no choice but to act now, and to act quickly.'

He turned and marched down the stairs. Expecting that she would follow. _Knowing_ she would. She did. Three steps down from her "tower", merely a secluded room in the corner of the vast, underground space in which they worked. In which some of them lived. There were no windows, no natural light. Not even an obvious entrance or exit. For the first time, as Gwendolyn looked around, she realised how good of a prison this dungeon-like space made. She shivered.

Near a spot along the wall where Gwendolyn knew a hidden door resided, the pair paused. Slowly, the stretch of hewn rock melted away before them, and a trolley rolled in of its own accord. Strapped to it with thick iron chains was a figure, breathing softly. Still alive.

'No, Raven,' she gasped. 'Please. This isn't meant to be used on _humans._ It's purely theoretical. It could… It might… I don't even like to think what might happen.'

She may as well have been arguing with the wall before her. Raven's broad, bluff features stayed unmoved. He bore all the emotion of a weathered granite boulder. 'It begins, now.'

A single sob shook Gwendolyn's entire body. The girl couldn't have been more than half her own age. Locks of hair curled gently about the corners of her face, and spilled down like a fiery waterfall over edges of the cart. It was a sort of coppery-gold. A pretty colour, really.

Gwendolyn had no family, but if she'd had a daughter, she thought this might be what she'd want her to look like.

The girl's eyes snapped open and found Gwendolyn's own. They were the rich, green-blue of the ocean.

And both of them started screaming, together.


	2. Missing

_A/N: As promised, the next installment - and the first real chapter - of James' fourth-year adventures. What uncertain fate has befallen Rain? How will the dynamic between he and Odette work as they explore new and scary ground between them? Will he ever make things right with Holly? And will Professor Longbottom forgive him for what he did at the end of third year? We'll be searching for answers to these and more questions throughout the year, and we may find that the resolutions are darker than we had anticipated..._

 _The Junior Triwizard Competition for Magical Excellence ended in controversy when the elusive and possibly insane captive-turned-fugitive Dorian Alder was sighted on Hogwarts grounds, inciting panic in the thousands gathered to witness the Tournament. Though the Ministry-led Steelhearts failed to apprehend Alder, rumours persisted of an epic battle playing out within the grounds. And although battle scars were found raking through the Greenhouses, no evidence of the participants were ever found. It is said that whatever happened on school grounds that day caused the end of the Maleficent Malady that had held the Wizarding World gripped in fear for the past year._

 _James returns to school to face the disappearance of the mysterious Rain, following a sequence of events that had - for the first time - led him to question her loyalty and motives. Will he seek her out, in order to get the answers to so many questions? Is it even possible, when not a trace of her presence is left behind? And what clues are found hidden deep away in the centre of the Forbidden Forest...?_

* * *

'So,' James asked. ' _Nobody_ has seen Rain?'

Fred only shrugged. Clip looked apologetic. Cat shook her head. Her long, silver locks shimmered in the light of the candles that dotted the open expanse of the Great Hall above them.

'Cassandra said she hadn't heard from her all summer,' Clip offered.

'Oh, _Cassandra_ did, did she?' Fred laughed. 'Did _Cassandra_ tell you this while you were tucked away in your own private carriage?'

'Shove off,' Clip said. 'Nothing is happening.' But his traitorous smile betrayed the words he spoke.

The four of them burst out into knowing laughter, adding their own sounds to the general roar created by the gathered and impatient student body of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, as they waited for their Headmistress to arrive and open proceedings.

Up and down the four, long tables house colours shone forth proudly. The bold red and gold of Gryffindor shining in the warm light. Hufflepuffs gentle yellow. The cool blue of Ravenclaw, and the rich, shimmering green of Slytherin flickering in and out between the shadows that intertwined with the firelight.

The latent anticipation charging the air was almost a thing palpable, something that James could touch or taste or see. Though expressing in a thousand different ways, the students of Hogwarts all told the same story. It was written in their eager smiles. Whispered in the excited flutter of this student's voice, or the titter of laughter from that group of girls. Its breaths were the rise and lull of conversation. And its voice spoke in the growing murmur from a thousand throats. Taking on a curious tone as the minutes stretched longer and still, their leader had not arrived.

Suddenly, the metallic thump that announced the locks lifting on the doors to the room sounded, and they swung open on oiled hinges. The conversation instantly became a conspiratorial, sibilant whisper, as the ragged string of first-years, rosy-cheeked and wide-eyed, began their stuttering way up the aisle, shepherded along by the friendly smile and patient gestures of Rubeus Hagrid.

'Don't even say it,' James shot, as he saw Fred's scrutiny of the newcomers.

'There is no way I was _that_ small.'

'Certainly, there's no way Cat was,' James countered. And turned to face her. 'Do you _ever_ stop growing?'

'Mummy says it's the Nargle eggs,' Cat explained gravely. 'I eat them twice a day. Raw. She says they are most important for a growing girl.'

'Well you might want to start easing off,' Fred grinned. 'Or you're going to be giving Hagrid a run for his money.'

Cat stuck out her tongue in a most ladylike gesture of disapproval.

When the Sorting hat burst into song without warning, the first few lines of the tune were lost amidst the uproar from the students. _Still_ Renshaw had not arrived, and now Sorting was to begin. The Hat waxed eloquent on the virtues of loyalty, and remembering those who had fought for them. That here, within these halls they were all family. And though outside forces may try to pull them apart, that sticking together was their greatest weapon, their strongest defence.

 _For once it was said by a wise talking head, who loved you with all of his heart,_

 _that we're strong as we are united, and as weak as we are split apart._

If applause could be confused, that was certainly the sentiment as the last words rang out among them. It wasn't until Bridgewater, Bridget was sorted into Slytherin that the students overcame their stupor and rallied to cheer for the first years Sorted before them.

Cat sent them all diving to cover their ears with a cheering whistle that split the room as her half-brothers, Lorcan and Lysander were both Sorted into Hufflepuff. James watched with a grimace as, between them, they tripped over three times and missed no fewer than eight high-fives from their fellow house-mates as they took up their seats.

'Aren't you upset they're not in Gryffindor?' Clip asked, watching the two boys now fighting over which fork belonged to whom.

'Oh no,' Cat smiled. 'They've wanted to be in Hufflepuff since they were old enough to want anything. Their Daddy was a Hufflepuff. And so was his Daddy, and his Daddy. And his Daddy. And-'

'Er, yes.' Clip' cut in. 'We get the picture.'

'What about _your_ father, Cat?' James asked, taking a sip of his pumpkin juice.

He regretted it instantly, as the spark that lived behind her pale eyes faltered for a moment, and she looked down, suddenly uncertain and closed off. Her shoulders hunched, and she became very interested in tracing circles with her finger on the table before her. 'I'm not sure,' was all that she would say on the matter.

The living organism that was the student body of Hogwarts reared its head once more as Professor Longbottom stood up and approached the dais. Renshaw's Headmistress chair was still conspicuously empty.

James waved to the Professor – he'd told his Mum a thousand times he wasn't going to give him _love_ – but received only a stony glare in return.

'First years, welcome. And to all the rest of you, welcome back.' The professor's voice washed over the students like a gently lapping wave. And with the power of the sea behind it, it smoothed over the speculation, rounded out the peering heads, and quieted the last few lips that put voice to their consternation. 'Hogwarts is to be your home for the coming months. And those seated next to you now are to be your family. So I trust you will treat them as such.

'I suppose it would be remiss of me to not mention the Erumpent in the room, before proceedings advance further.'

The anticipatory buzz rose, right on cue. James found himself leaning forward slightly in his seat.

'The Headmistress cannot be with us tonight, as she is out of the country. She is currently enjoying an extended stay in France, and likely will be doing so for the immediate future. The length of her stay, at this stage, is indefinite.'

The single buzz became a swarm around them. James shot Fred a pointed look.

'France?' Clip hissed. 'She and Valerie Dufour don't get on at all.'

James nodded. No few threats had been passed between the two heads of school. He and Fred had been unwitting witnesses to most of it.

'Do you think it's the vampires?' Cat whispered over, a concerned look upon her gentle features.

'If she's stuck in France,' James ventured. 'Then it's probably not by choice. Might be that the vampires are a better option than what has her at the moment.'

'That will be _quite_ enough,' Professor Longbottom continued. The razor sharp edge to his tone cut the head clean off the beast of speculation that was writhing within the room. 'In the interim, the remaining Hogwarts staff have agreed to share the burden of the Headmistress' administration and leadership duties among us. We will, under no circumstances, be selecting a new Headmistress until matters elsewhere are… resolved.

'I ask in the meantime that you treat one another with respect; that you look out for one another like the family that you are. And that you do not heed quite everything that you might hear or read about our Headmistress.

'Now, enough talk. Eat!'

James completely ignored the flourish of food that appeared on the plates before him. He was too busy staring, dumbstruck up at the dais that Professor Longbottom had just vacated.

'He can't just drop that on us and then try distract us with food,' Clip complained. Despite the statement, he was busily helping himself to a good handful of pre-dinner dessert in the form of a mountain of treacle tarts.

''Mmrph ermph,' Fred agreed through an eye-wateringly large mouthful of roast lamb.

'Didn't he look stressed?' Cat asked, chewing on the end of a strand of hair rather than favouring the fare set out before them.

'Reckon I'd be stressed too if I just got lumped with half of Renshaw's duties,' Clip said, gesturing pointedly with a stuffed éclair. 'She's _always_ busy. Not a clue what she does most of the day, but she's always up to _something_.'

'Agreed,' James murmured. 'On both counts.'

But just what she was up to this time, allowing herself to be held, possibly captive, in a foreign country was well beyond him. The problem bothered him all through dinner and dessert, so that he hardly touched the food. Happily, Clip and Fred managed to take up his slack, and soon the four of them were groaning and staggering their way up to the Gryffindor Tower together.

James, at least, made it as far as the lowest step on the Grand Staircase.

'Potter, a word.'

He turned to see Professor Zoe Meadows making her limping way towards him, wincing slightly as her weight fell upon her wooden leg with every other step. She wore her customary bright pink lipstick, and her bright blonde hair fell elegantly around her shoulders. She'd also chosen for the occasion a bright yellow dress that didn't quite go with either of it. But for all the overtly garish display of colour, there was a hint of tired grey beneath it. The shadow of bruised bags beneath her eyes. A slight pursing of her lips that wasn't usually present.

'Hello Professor,' James said, a little uncertainly. They stopped, face-to-face in the middle of the Entrance Hall. The tide of students carried on flowing around them. The professor paused to swat an unobservant Ravenclaw with her nose in a book who'd nearly walked into them both.

'Detention, Potter. My office. Eight o'clock this Friday.'

'What?' James spluttered. 'I didn't do it, honest. That Dungbomb in the Slytherin carriage was a bunch of sixth-years. And fine, I _might_ have let that badger loose under the Hufflepuff table earlier, but it was a Transfigured one. It only lasted a minute or two. There weren't even any tears!'

The professor studied James with her hands on hips. She was slowly being overcome by an odd sort of look that took James a while to realise was her attempt at not smiling.

'I'm not sure if I ought to be astounded, appalled, or impressed-'

'Impressed. You're _definitely_ impressed.'

'And you're _definitely_ heading for double-detention if that big mouth of yours keeps making noise.'

James' jaw snapped shut with an audible _click._

'It isn't for anything you've done this year, Potter. Though maybe it should be. This is a follow-on from your activities at the end of last year. I believe the Headmistress informed you that a suitable punishment would await you. Well, here I am, suitably punishing you. Detention. Every Friday until, oh, let's say until our Headmistress herself can return and change her mind. Seeing as I was the arresting officer, you'll be spending it with me, first up. This Friday. Eight o'clock. We'll be practicing writing apology letters to Professor Longbottom.

'And when I say we, what I really mean is _you.'_

'But Friday is Quidditch trials!' James pleaded.

'Not my problem. Finish them early. Because if you're not there at eight o'clock sharp, then I'm going to take your broom and do something with it that most people would deem frowned upon.'

'What if I- never mind. I'll be there.' James finished, already walking away. He'd just spied another figure exiting the Great Hall that he was much more eager to be spending his evening conversing with.

Odette Mansfield.

Professor Meadows saw her, too. And made a grab for James, which he deftly avoided. 'Get back here, Potter. I'm not done with you.'

'Eight o'clock, or broomstick insertion,' he called over his shoulder with a wink. 'Gotcha.'

'Oh my, James. It sounds like you've quite the evening planned with the professor. Ought I to be jealous?'

Though it was one of the few times in the school year that to wear the entirety of their uniform was mandatory, Odette had somehow managed to get away with a very loose interpretation of the rules, indeed.

Her tie was nowhere to be seen – probably stuffed into the satchel bag swung over her shoulder from which a corner of her green-fringed robe still hung. The faded ashen blonde of her hair was now shot through with something darker, her eyes and lips painted to match. She'd unfastened enough buttons of her shirt so that James didn't have to stretch his imagination too far to wonder what that flash of mint green lace might be. In her heeled boots she stood at least as tall as he, and the cut of her skirt allowed him to take in the full length of legs he felt he could admire for days.

He attempted his least lecherous welcoming smile as he drank in the sight, the scent and the sheer presence that was Odette Mansfield. She was clearly enjoying his reaction.

They hugged. Long and close and, now, familiar. James became acutely aware of the fact that she smelled like she'd just stepped out of the shower, while he smelled like he'd spent all day in a cramped, hot carriage with four other blokes.

As they parted, there was the briefest of moments where they paused, still half-committed to the hug. Should James kiss her? He opted out. He could still feel Professor Meadows' eyes boring into the back of his skull from the first floor landing. And a few students had already slowed down to shoot them lingering sidelong glances.

The flicker of disappointment that skittered cross Odette's features, however, made him instantly regret the decision.

'How were your holidays?' James forced out, eager to move on from the forgettable moment.

'Boring,' she replied, twirling a lock of hair around one finger. She surveyed the students around them with an aloof distaste. Her smug superiority made sure that they knew that they were the ones on the outside, looking in. 'You might have thought to write.'

'I, er, don't know where you live,' James stammered, taken aback.

'You might have thought to _ask.'_

Her cool tone was giving James the impression that he'd somehow walked into this conversation having already done something wrong.

'I see your little ginger friend was absent from proceedings.'

'You haven't seen her, then?'

'I've better things to do with my time than follow around after unwanted orphan children, James. Last I heard, she was at St Mungo's. Perhaps she's taking time off for her health. Good riddance, I say. You spend entirely too much time with that girl on your mind.'

Odette had stopped the twirling now, and flipped the entire curtain of her hair forwards across her shoulder, combing it gently with her fingers. She looked up at James only occasionally.

'She's my friend. I'd like to know she's alright, is all.'

'Well, how about you _write to her._ '

'But I don't-' James cut himself off. A good few seconds after making a fool of himself.

Odette sighed, and finally left her hair alone. 'Well, as enlightening as this has been, James, I've got a bag to unpack, and a ceiling to go stare at, or something.'

'Oh, right. Sure.'

She blew him a kiss as she began to walk away. 'Good luck at trials this week. And I find Luckett's Lustrous Lubricant wax works the best.'

James frowned, confused.

'For the broomstick.'

His eyes widened in shock.

'Maintenance, of course. It gives the best finish. Good night James.'

And with the hint of a sultry smile, Odette was gone. And James was left with the same drained and confused feeling that he thought he'd started getting over.

'Good grief, my boy. That was hard to watch.' Tristan Macmillan strode out of the Great Hall shaking his head in despair. 'You didn't mention her hair, didn't give her a kiss, and you _didn't even write over the holidays._ Mate, take this. I've a feeling you're going to need it a hell of a lot more than me.'

James looked down at the book Tristan pressed into his hands: _Twelve Failsafe Ways to Charm Witches._ Tristan's "Holy Text". The book they'd fought so hard to steal back last year after the girls confiscated it from them.

As he gazed wistfully back down towards the Slytherin dungeons, James was inclined to agree.

His own version of unpacking was no doubt a little more haphazard than Odette's would have been. The only time he stopped to take a care was as he gently lifted his gleaming Nimbus Model One broomstick out and up onto the rack where he stored it beside his bed.

He had to dig to the deepest, darkest, forgotten-sockiest depths of his trunk to fish out his pyjamas. As he did so, he felt his fist close around something hard and cold.

He pulled out Rain's amulet, the one that she'd given him toward the end of the last year. He felt a little onrush of guilt at having left it, forgotten in the bottom of his trunk all summer. She'd needed that amulet to keep her alive through her second year. And probably still did. How long before she'd start to feel the effects of its absence?

He placed the amulet carefully on his bedside table. The cool blue glow lasted even after he'd turned out all the lights.

Sleep was a long time in coming. Two figures had up and disappeared from his life over the holidays, and he hadn't a single clue as to what either might be up to. He didn't like it in the least. And, being the one and only James Sirius Potter, he'd be damned if he wasn't going to do something about it.


	3. Flight

For the students of Hogwarts, the drudgery of the first week of classes was quick to evaporate before the heated excitement surrounding the impending Quidditch team trials. Speculation was rife throughout the school as to who would take the top spots in every house team. The first match was but a month away. Already, Odette and Slytherin had held two trial games, down on the pitch.

James spent the week furiously keeping up with the increased workload that the fourth-years had been given. In the year preceding their OWL exams, the teachers sought to prepare them through their own sort of trial – one by fire, it seemed. Inches of parchment stretching into feet and yards, research, more difficult spells, potions James had never even heard of. And all this before the first weekend of the year.

But James dared not give any of the teachers a reason to hand him _another_ detention. Particularly when they all seemed far more snappish and on edge than usual at this time of year. It appeared that Professor Longbottom's sour mood wasn't reserved only for James – although he still did get his own special helping of disappointment – their class spent one entire lunchtime re-potting a bunch of severely ill-mannered Venomous Tentacula.

And so, with the whole grubby, stressful, parchment-riddled week behind them, James could finally let out a sigh of relief as he, Fred and Al marched down the grounds on Friday afternoon with broomsticks slung over their shoulders. James had been squeezing in every minute he could that wasn't devoted to lessons down on the pitch. Ironing out the kinks and lazy habits that had crept in to his flying after a few months out of the skies.

Briefly crowned as the Hero of Hogwarts at the end of his third year, James wasn't entirely worried about risk of his own selection: it was Al's place on the team that he was most concerned about.

'So what do you think my chances are?' Al tried not to look nervous as they passed by the Black Lake. Far out, a series of ripples announced the Squid frolicking beneath the surface. Al was plucking at the hem of his shirt. A sure sign he was fretting.

'You'll be fine, Al,' James assured him with a pat on the back. 'Diana Fairbourne was only ever on the team because she wanted the attention of the seventh-year boys. Now _she_ is a seventh-year. She's in it for the status, not for the game. You'll fly circles around her.'

'And besides,' Fred added with a wink and a grin. 'A good Seeker is a light, nimble Seeker. You look like you haven't eaten a proper meal in weeks. Are they even feeding you in that house?'

'I eat _loads.'_

'Really? Blink twice if James is starving you.'

'Mum says she's jealous. She says if she could eat as much and stay as slim as me, then she wouldn't have been stuck dating specky little Harry Potter when she was at Hogwarts.'

The three of them burst into laughter, startling a pair of ravens from their perch in a nearby tree. They cawed and crowed their displeasure all the way out over the canopy of the Forbidden Forest.

'Speaking of unfortunate dating situations,' Fred said with a nudge, and he gestured to the centre of the Quidditch pitch, where the entirety of the gathered Gryffindor hopefuls were facing off against none other than Odette Mansfield.

' _Really?_ ' Al asked, aghast. 'I thought he'd been making that up all summer.'

James chose the better part of valour, and ignored Al, as he stalked over to see what the cause of the commotion was.

'Potter,' Preston Lynch called from the head of the group. 'Your _girlfriend_ is spying on our tryouts.'

'She's n-' James stopped himself before he made a blunder of biblical proportions. 'Ahem. She's a spectator. There's no rule against spectators at tryouts.' James gestured up towards the scattering of onlookers dotted about the stadium to prove his point.

'She's the captain of the enemy team!' Lynch protested. A few of those gathered nodded in agreement. 'She'll steal our plays. She'll take our ideas!'

'Hell _ooo,_ boys. I am right here.'

James flashed an apologetic smile. 'It's a trial, Lynch. The best she'll get is who can't throw left-handed, who sits too heavy through their turns, and who is only here to try and look cool. All she'll see is who is going to make the team. Hell, maybe we could use her advice.'

'Thank you, James my _darling_ ,' Odette simpered. Fred snickered in the background. 'With that sorted, I think I'll go take my seat. Need to find the best spot from which to take some notes.'

She flashed both boys a playful wink and sauntered off towards the stands before anyone could stop her.

'She'd better not-' Lynch began.

'She won't.' James finished, with an air of finality. But James knew how seriously Odette took her Quidditch. As a little worm of doubt snuck its way into the back of James' mind, he wished he truly was as certain as he made himself sound.

James flew the trial like he was the best player on the pitch. With the exception of a few nerve-induced hiccups that cropped up when he noticed Odette watching him closely. On his Nimbus Model One, only Lynch and his new Thunderbolt could come close to the quality of his broom. And none among the others could come close to the skill of either of them, as they dominated every phase of the skills portion of the evening.

They played an evenly-matched game of six-a-side – less the Seekers – that was really little more than a stage for James and Preston to attempt to out-do each other from opposite teams. James' side managed to eke out a narrow lead, and James himself ended the match with finality when he caught a dodgy pass from a teammate mid barrel-roll, flipped a backwards loop to narrowly avoid a bludger, and slotted a beautiful behind-the-back Bavarian Bounce-shot in off the rim of the middle hoop, past the flailing Keeper.

Declan Hawksby sounded the whistle to end their match. A hearty applause from the few gathered echoed about the stadium and off out over the Lake in the still, evening air. James resisted the urge to fly to the middle of the pitch and offer a flourishing bow.

His nerves only truly began to kick in as he and Fred hung up their brooms for the day, and made their way to the sideline to watch the Seekers put through their drills. There were four hopefuls, though Al and Diana were the only two James considered as having any real chance.

'You're going to be fine,' James assured, with his hands on Al's shoulders. 'Remember, she favours her right hand. She's a rubbish catch on the left. She's sluggish through her turns, and slow on the ascent, but she's a great diver. And she's not afraid to throw her body around. She's bigger than you-'

'I'll say,' Fred quipped. 'It looks like she spent the summer eating pumpkin pasties.'

James ignored him. Focused on Al's shaky, green-eyed stare. 'So beat her with acceleration and quickness. Play to your strengths. Outsmart her.'

He broke eye contact to look up at the sky. There was not a cloud in sight. A mild September evening, with the sun a molten bronze disc, hanging low above the distant mountains. The barest hint of a breeze stirred the hairs on James' bare arm.

'Use the sun to your advantage,' he told Al. 'She was never clued-up enough to think of that stuff. There's no clouds, but we're losing light. Wind is-'

'Wind is about three-fifths of sod-all from the west,' Al continued. He'd set his jaw in the way he did when determination was beginning to win out over the fear. James could see the transformation happening in his brother's eyes before him. 'But it'll affect me more than her. Play it low, use the stands as shelter if need be.'

There was no trepidation in his voice now. This side of the game, the conditions and tactics and planning, Al knew almost as well as James. His Quidditch mind was as sharp as any. A warm, spreading sensation welled up in James' chest, and he clasped hands with his younger brother, as the whistle called him to the air.

'That's my boy.'

'It's a proud parenting moment, isn't it?' Fred asked, as the two boys drew up a pair of chairs on the sideline. 'When your young one finally takes flight. To think, I taught him everything I know.'

' _You_ taught him?' James laughed. 'You, who spent half of last summer sitting on the veranda shooting Weasley's Wildfire Whizbangs at him while he tried to train?'

'Mark my words,' Fred smirked. 'Nobody on this team is going to dodge Bludgers better than that boy this season, just you wait.'

The two boys sat back and watched the proceedings with a keen interest. James, though, with one eye on his watch, as eight o'clock began to approach in that unstoppable, creeping way that time ever possessed. His assumptions were clear on the candidate's skill. Al and Diana were a clear cut above the other two – a second year who appeared scared of heights, and a sixth-year who look like he could have eaten Al whole and still been hungry.

But there was little to separate the two from each other. They completed the obstacle course in roughly the same time. They caught the same number of charmed tennis balls shot from the end of their teammates' wands. They both offered a serviceable iteration of the Wronskei Feint – though nothing that would have held a torch to Harry Potter's efforts, for sure.

Their final task was simple in nature. One Snitch was released between four Seekers. Only one of them could emerge triumphant. Fred and a couple of the other Beater hopefuls took to the skies to slap around a few Bludgers, and simulate a real match situation. As the sun began to kiss the tops of the tallest mountains, James' watch indicated his freedom was ebbing steadily away along with the last of the day's light.

He clutched the edge of his chair as Diana dropped into a speedy dive. But it was only a fake – chubby and scaredy both fell for it, but Al, much to James' glowing pride, stayed put, his eyes darting all around the pitch in constant vigil.

As five minutes to eight came and went, James cursed that the match still hadn't ended. He slunk from the stands, and cut an awkward half-jog, half-walk with his head tilted over his shoulder the whole way up to the castle. He only tripped and fell four times.

As he pushed open the doors to the Entrance Hall, the ghost of a cheer rose up from the distant stands. The last of the sun's light left them, and James hoped with all his might that it had been Al to catch the Snitch.

'Well, well, well. James Potter. My clock tells me it is _exactly_ three minutes past eight.'

James' eyes darted around the office until they found the object in question. It appeared that Professor Zoe Meadows was not lying.

'Your broomstick, if you please.'

James handed it over with an audible 'Eep!'

'Oh, by the Founders, if the look on your face right now isn't worth a thousand Galleons and a whole _year's_ worth of extra bloody paperwork. Sit down, Potter. And have a glass of water. You look like you've just seen Voldemort himself.'

James scowled as the Professor, her cheeks still flushed from the laughter, sat back in her chair and placed his broom in the rack usually reserved for the keeping of her wooden leg.

'Speak for yourself. Perhaps not Voldemort, but _you_ have been looking a little haggard lately.'

'You know, I've heard rumours there are still shackles and torture equipment set up in the deepest dungeons. I'm not above receiving a letter of discipline for grievous bodily harm to a student. And besides, you'd look a state as well, if you'd spent four of your last five nights up past midnight filling out paperwork and bloody student progress reports. How in the hell does she manage it?'

'Renshaw?' James asked.

'Aye.' Professor Meadows ran both hands through her hair, as if the very recollection of the woman's name was bringing about a fresh wave of anxiety. 'We're all of us picking up a little of the load of Headmistress duties. I just didn't realise it would be so bloody _much._ None of us have had a decent night's sleep since term started. It's a wonder half the school isn't in detention as a result. Or the Hospital wing. Been a few mouthy gits I've felt like Hexing just to shut them up.'

On her last statement, she favoured James with a very pointed stare, which he chose to very pointedly ignore.

'Any news on what she's up to, or when she'll be back?' he slipped the question in as casually as possible, leaning forward against the professor's desk as if they were discussing the weather over cups of tea.

But Zoe Meadows was far too canny for the likes of him. Well, that or he just didn't have a subtle, Slytherin bone in his entire body.

'Don't try and distract me with gossip, Potter. You're here to write lines. Apology letter to Professor Longbottom, go!'

James sighed, fishing his quill and parchment out from his bag. The lighting in the room was barely enough to write by, so he conjured a small flame upon the candles that flanked the desk.

'Now, Potter, repeat after me: Dear Professor Longbottom…'

'Dear Professor Longbottom.'

She gestured impatiently that he be writing this down.

'I sincerely apologise for violating your trust, and stealing from you despite being expressly forbidden…'

James winced as he scribbled. When she put it _that_ way, it didn't sound too good. But Professor Meadows wasn't done yet.

'I am sorry that I was such a tremendous arse-'

'Hey!'

'And that my actions brought forth such righteous anger in those steely, blue eyes…'

'Erm… what?'

'Just shut up and write, Potter!'

And so he wrote. The minutes stretched between them. Long and, after a short time, aching in James' wrist and forearm. He filled first one length of parchment, and then a second. Across from him, Professor Meadow's lips moved wordlessly as she marked the papers. The monotony was broken only intermittently by her cursing, eye-rolling or outright disdain for the answers some of her students had given.

James was _fairly_ certain he wasn't the one who got "this 'T' is an insult to trolls" written on his test, and he sure hoped he wasn't the one told to "meet me at the top of the Astronomy Tower. Bring a rope. And your will."

Patience among the faculty was thin on the ground, indeed.

'Ugh, this is ridiculous,' the professor finally sighed, shoving away the pile of papers before her in disgust. James eyed the clock. At a quarter to ten, his freedom was almost a tangible thing now. He'd completed forty-one of the apology-stroke-love notes. 'Tell me, James. How were your holidays? How are things around home?'

James blinked. Of all the things he'd expected, idle chatter wasn't one of them.

'Any visitors? New family members, perhaps?'

Ah. Of course.

Sometimes, behind the formality of her position, and the shining crest on her teachers' robes, James forgot that Zoe Meadows had been a student here, much like himself. That she was only, in fact, a handful of years older than he was. He was guilty of the same consideration when it came to all teachers, really. That their mutual interaction was so structured, narrow and scripted that he only really ever saw them in one, single light. It was easy to forget that they had their own hopes and fears and aspirations, as did he.

And when it came to Zoe Meadows, many of those were centred upon her childhood friend and sometimes lover; James' not-brother, Teddy Lupin.

'Teddy is out of St Mungo's. He's moved in with us again. He's helping Mum and Aunt Hermione run the day-care while he gets his strength back.'

'Really? How is he with the kids? Does he like them? Do they like _him?_ Wait, no- don't answer that. Has cousin Victoire, er, been around home much?'

James smiled a sly smile. Perhaps there had been some ulterior motives at play in his landing in detention with Professor Meadows, after all.

'Once or twice. She's working a placement in France, so we don't see a lot of her, these days.' An idea suddenly came to James. 'You should write him. I hear that's the sort of thing people do. Apparently they like it.'

'Perhaps I will,' the professor said, sucking on the end of her quill. 'Maybe you're not quite as daft as that big wide-eyed stare suggests, Potter.'

'Hey!'

'And what about yourself?' she paused to pull an elusive feather off of her tongue. 'I see you are still entertaining the Mansfield girl… have you spoken to Miss Brooks at all, since term began?'

 _Here we go._

'Nah-uh. Nope. No way. The last time you tried to make us play nice almost ended with my head popping clean off my shoulders. I like to keep it there. So no, I've not spoken to her.'

'Well, I can only assume you've heard the rumours. I can assure you that they are quite true.'

'Which ones? The one where she was caught snogging Selwyn Macnair in the lunch lady's compartment on the Express? Or the one that said she was the culprit who downed a whole bottle of Weasley's Diarrhoea Drops and dashed through the entire length and breadth of Ravenclaw tower? People have been speaking ill of Holly since the incident in first year, that's nothing new.'

'Er, well, definitely _not_ the second one.'

'Then she's at perfect liberty to do that with whomever she chooses.' Which was entirely true, but James didn't have to like it.

'Of course. But wouldn't you rather she didn't _choose_ half of Slytherin fourth-year?'

James clenched his fists, but remained silent.

'I don't know if she ever spoke to you about it, but she has a terrible home life. And, thus far, she's not had a great school life either. I'm sure you know I've developed something of a soft spot for her. I just hate to see her assassinate her character so.'

'Merlin only knows how you teach her to fight like that. But it has every bloke and his owl in the school drooling over her.'

'Exactly. And I wouldn't take it back. She's a natural talent almost- almost as good as I am. Well, _was,_ I guess. But that's my point. It's our fault, so if you want the old Holly back, it's on us to make things right.'

The pair shared a long look over the table. Professor Meadows was repeatedly folding and unfolding a scrap of parchment between her pink-painted nails. She looked as if she didn't even know she was doing it.

Eventually, James smiled and shook his head. He pushed his chair back and stood.

'You're a _terrible_ matchmaker, you know that?' he rolled his eyes, for good measure. 'And my time is up. It's been… eye-opening, as always, Professor. Until next time.'

'Not so fast, you haven't finished your lines!'

James opened his mouth to argue, but felt something suddenly flash hot against his thigh. Something hard and round and from inside the pocket he'd taken to storing Rain's amulet in. He clutched it, pinning it against his leg. It was hot even through the fabric.

'James, are you alright?'

'Fine- I'm fine,' he forced out, lunging for his broom and limping for the door. Beneath his fingers, the amulet was starting to vibrate urgently.

'Do I _want_ to know what you've got in there?'

'Good night, professor!'

James slammed the door. Out in the corridor, he whipped the amulet out and cradled it in the palms of both hands. It was glowing. More so, he thought, that its usual eerie hue. Was it simply the flickering shadows that haunted the late night castle, or was there movement deep within that fat, sapphire gemstone? But even as he peered hungrily into its depths, the humming stopped, the light faded, and it returned to cool, lifeless crystal in his hands once more.

James stood there in the darkness a moment longer, poised as if waiting for something, before shrugging, and popping the amulet back in his pocket on his way up to bed.


	4. Warmth

The following Monday was set to dawn bright and clear and warm. And James and Albus Potter were already awake to greet it. They'd camped out the night prior in the Gryffindor common room, tucked away on the two comfiest armchairs, near the unnecessary fire that crackled incessantly behind its grate.

The first rays of rosy light could just be seen dusting the sky in the east. The subtlest change of hue in the darkness. A precursor to any real light shining in through the large, stained-glass windows.

Both boys were identically positioned, crouched down beneath their respective blankets, so that only their eyes could be seen. Eyes that were, despite the unconscionable hour, open and avid. James stifled a yawn by stuffing the corner of a pillow in his mouth.

'Footsteps,' he hissed at Al. A rustle of the covers announced his nod of recognition. Too nervous to speak.

A figure appeared at the head of the steps. Wrapped head to toe in a dressing gown. A drawn hood partly concealed a length of long, dark hair. It could be none other than Carina Swift, their newly-minted Captain and Keeper.

Both boys hunched down. James could feel his own heart racing in anticipation. His fingers quivered slightly where he gripped the arms of the chair, leaving tiny, crescent nail-marks in the already-worn leather.

No sooner had Carina placed the notice and retreated back up the stairs, than the pair bolted from their chairs together. Al slipped in ahead of James – the boy sure could move – and crowded the crumpled sheet of parchment as if it alone held the secrets to the Elixir of Life.

James' own eyes scanned the sheet. The handwriting was cramped and messy. In the half-light, hard to read. Potter, James was the first Chaser listed. _Hah, take that Preston,_ he secretly goaded. Lynch, Preston was, however, the next name down. Alongside Fisher, Abbie and Fisher, Zanthia – the seventh year twins and one-time fill-ins for the Gryffindor team.

He was dallying, he knew it. Al had gone completely rigid before him, though from excitement or disappointment, James didn't know. Part of him dreaded knowing. Weasley, Fred and Attaway, Ash left only – aside from Carina herself – one position left. James found himself gripping the sleeve of Al's shirt as his eyes dropped downwards to see…

Potter, Albus, written in bold as the starting Seeker of the Gryffindor team.

'You did it!' James roared, lifting his still-lifeless brother up and spinning him round. He shook and danced and yelled until Al finally came to and joined in with equal vigour. They jumped up and down on the couches until someone shouted down from above, 'Put a lid on it, tosspots. It's half five in the bloody morning!'

They quietened down after that, but the excitement took a long time to fade.

It still hadn't, entirely, come that afternoon, as the fourth-years made their way down the castle grounds towards Hagrid's hut for their first Care of Magical Creatures lesson of the year. The sun had fulfilled its promises of earlier in the morning, and was shining down upon the lot of them, so that sleeves were rolled, ties were loosened, and robes were left forgotten in their dormitories. James was busy rolling up his own sleeves as Fred, now also infatuated with the enthusiasm, babbled on beside him.

'That's _three_ family members on the team now. Dad and Uncle Ron will be stoked. Although, they'll still say _their_ three was better.'

'As _if,'_ James tutted, mimicking slotting a Quaffle through the goal hoops. 'I get shots past Uncle Ron all the time.'

'I still can't believe "Weasley is our King" was made up for _him_ ,' Fred said, shaking his head in wonder.

'Or that he saved a hundred shots in one game.'

'Or that Gryffindor house made him a crown of solid gold after they won.'

' _Or_ that Professor McGonagall was so happy that she gave him an "O" in Transfiguration before he'd even sat the test.'

'You don't suppose,' Fred mused thoughtfully. 'That they might exaggerate a little when they tell us these stories, do you?'

'No way,' James said with certainty. 'This is Harry Potter and Ron Weasley we're talking about. They were _legends.'_

'I hate to break up the chat, lads,' Tristan grinned, shoving his way in between the pair. 'And I really hate to sound like Cassie on her monthly tirade, but do you two _ever_ stop talking about that bloody sport? I'm of half a mind to join up just to beat you at it so you'll shut up!'

'You wouldn't,' Fred gasped.

'You _couldn't,'_ James scowled.

'Lads, I spent the entire past summer chopping firewood around the farm like a damned Muggle. My arms are nearly the size of your legs. I could whack a damned Blotcher twice as far as you could dream of.'

' _It's Bludger!'_ Fred and James roared in joint outrage.

'I know,' Tristan winked. 'But that was much more fun. And besides, I reckon the captain, Ava Adams, has a thing for me.'

'What about the short one, Chloe Swann? You couldn't get rid of her last year.'

'That was the problem. We've, er… mutually decided to part ways, since then. Was why I passed on the Sacred Book. I don't need to be attracting, right now. I need to be hiding. Say, did it ever seem to you guys like Chloe was a little-'

'Yes!' they chorused, before Tristan had even finished.

'Huh. I never saw it. Oh, and, speaking of ill-advised romantic pairings, here comes half of one right now.'

Like mist-wraiths under the sun, Fred and Tristan melted away as a group of fifth-years, headed by Odette Mansfield rounded the corner, and James nearly found himself in their laps.

'Hi Odette,' James smiled, secretly pleased with himself for managing a coherent sentence on his first attempt. He then decided he'd go one better. 'I like your hair.'

He was thoroughly unprepared for the derisive scoff he got in return, or the flat, insincere 'Thanks,' she shot his way as she stalked off with her group of friends, tossing her locks over her shoulder in an obvious display of irritation.

'Mate, this is getting worse by the day,' Tristan consoled him as they arrived with the rest of the group, gathered around the entrance to Hagrid's hut.

'I don't get it. I did the hair thing.'

'Yea, a week late. After almost every single person in the castle had noticed first. Read the damned Book, you'll see.'

Cat, who'd arrived early and been chatting animatedly with Hagrid, skipped over to join them. Her face was covered in a thin veneer of soot, and both of her sleeves were burned away up past the elbows. Neither fact boded particularly well for the safety of their upcoming class. Although curiously, there was nothing obviously laid out in preparation for their lesson.

'Banished to Azkaban, I'd heard…' a sudden train of nearby conversation got James' attention. He turned away from where Hagrid was approaching the head of the group, to stare sidelong at a small group of Ravenclaws, gathered near the back of the class.

'Don't be ridiculous, Pyke,' scoffed the foremost among them, a tall blonde boy named Caspar Helstrom. 'My father works at the Ministry. If she'd been jailed, he'd know. He'd tell me.'

'Then where is she?'

'Don't tell me you _fancy_ her. I believe father heard that she'd transferred to another school, perhaps. She couldn't seem to keep herself out of trouble at this one. Or another hospital, more likely. St Mungo's probably knows. Notthat _I_ care a whit. Good riddance, I say. Our house is better off without her.'

James had little doubt which _her_ the boys were talking about. He made to push his way through the crowd towards them, but Fred's steady hand grabbed a hold of his shoulder. ' _Later_ ,' he mouthed.

'Afternoon, fourth years!' Hagrid's gravelly voice boomed from the top step of his hut. It instantly put paid to any lesser conversations. 'Gather round, gather round.'

The students did so, crowding in as close as they could whilst trying to avoid treading on Hagrid's prized pumpkins. Some of which were already broader than James' arm span. James, for his part, had to elbow a Ravenclaw out of the way lest he end up with his boots in a steaming pile of leavings from something much larger than your run-of-the-mill owl or raven.

'Blimey, look at yer happy faces,' Hagrid beamed. James peered around among his classmates, and would have gauged the sentiment as closer to "trepidation" than "happiness". 'Yer a damned sight more grown than when I chased the lot o' yeh across the Black Lake, way back when. Cat Lovegood, you'd better stop growing, mind. Else you'll be the one looking down on me!'

Cat blushed. It was easy to see, as she stood head and shoulders taller than most of the rest of them.

'Now, I've got a bit of an improm- an improp- sod it, and unplanned lessen for yer today. It seems a couple o' young lovers last night thought it a good idea to spend the evenin' down by the Lake Shore, with a wee midnight picnic. All well and good, but they also happened ter light themselves a magical fire. Which they let burn right through 'till dawn.

'Now, can anyone tell me what likes ter spawn in untended magical fires?'

A scattering of hands went up, Tristan's and Cat's among them.

'Yes, Cat. Er, Miss Lovegood.'

'Ashwinders,' Cat explained. 'But Mummy also says Fire-Nymphs, if it's a full moon. Or Scorch-wraiths, if the tides are low. Or-'

A round of poorly-concealed snickers rolled through much of their classmates. James scowled at them all for good measure.

'Er, Ashwinders will do, Miss Lovegood. Five points to Gryffindor.' That shut the snarks up. 'Now luckily, the frisky couple weren't bitten, but a breeding pair of Ashwinders did cut loose and seem to have holed up in me cabin. I've caught the father and trapped him in the fireplace, but Mummy is still playing hide-and-seek. And I think by now it's a safe bet that she'll have a little clutch of eggs under her scaly backside.'

There was an audible _'ooh,'_ from those among the students who understood the gravity of the situation.

'Nothing to fear from Ashwinder eggs, o' course,' Hagrid hastened to assure them. 'Other than, they do have a wee bit of a knack for-'

' _Whoosh!'_ Tristan gestured, throwing his hands high into the air, an avid expression on his face.

'Er, right, Macmillan. Whoosh. Have a point to Hufflepuff, I suppose. Now then, grab a partner and a pair of dragonhide gloves and happy hunting. One spot, the other wrangle. And if you see the eggs, sing out and we'll get them frozen right quick before any, erm… _whoosh_ happens.'

The class milled around what James had previously thought to be the tanned hide of some beast, but was instead a pile of ill-fitting, mismatched dragonhide gloves that looked like they might have been serviceable back when his father had been at school.

'I'm sticking with leg-arms,' Fred said, sidling over to Tristan. 'We see this thing, then I'm putting your big ugly self between me and it.'

Tristan didn't seem to mind. He had a strange sort of look in his eye that was bordering on fervent, as he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. He already had one foot through the door before any of the other nervous classmates had chosen their gloves. 'I like fire,' James heard him whisper under his breath. Fred looked suddenly as if he were about to change his mind.

James nodded to Cat as he tugged on the closest thing to a pair of gloves he could find. He flashed Hagrid a grin and a double thumbs-up before realising he'd manage to don two lefts. With a shrug, he followed Cat in through the door, hoping she was good with her _Aguamenti._

Inside offered only a skerrick of the sunlight that lit up the day without. The windows were all shut fast. Cloth was tacked across them, allowing a sort of musty haze as all they had to see by. The single room was sweltering hot. Movement from the lit fireplace caught James' attention. A pair of lambent eyes, shining menacingly from within the embers glared out at the four of them. A glowing tail flicked irritably as the captured Ashwinder tossed itself back and forth in frustration.

James wiped sweat from his brow already. Tristan busied himself by sorting through a pile of debris near the lone table that was the only way to discern the dining room from the kitchen, from the bedroom, in the cramped, crowded space.

It was a wonder Hagrid could even move around in there. Stacks of paraphernalia teetered almost as high as the ceiling. Various traps and ropes and snares, for keeping the myriad nasties of the Forest at bay took up one whole wall, and decorated the faded wooden boarding with their own rusted, muted show of tiredness.

Some odd noises, and a writhing motion came from beneath a blanket in the far corner. Fred peeked under a corner, before hastily dropping it back in place. His dark features were painted a ghostly grey, and his eyes spoke of untold horrors. 'Not under there.' He squeaked. James didn't need telling twice.

From outside, James heard Preston Lynch _bravely_ offer to search the perimeter of the house. A few other students latched on to that, and decided that the Pumpkin Patch needed clearing. Or the path back up to the Castle.

He and Cat took the corner of the room that Hagrid used for sleeping. A massive cot, at least twice as long as James was tall, dominated an entire quadrant of the circular room. Thick, scratchy blankets lay bunched at the foot, and a single pillow larger than James' torso – and twice as firm – adorned the head.

'Do you ever think Hagrid gets lonely?' Cat suddenly asked, as James was tentatively riffling through a stack of Hagrid's trousers.

'Er, maybe, I dunno. He's got Sirius.'

Right on cue, an excitable chorus of barking sounded from out back of the hut.

'I suppose. But he doesn't ever _say_ much, though, does he?'

As the barking carried on, and slowly got more and more on his nerves, James rather thought he disagreed with that statement.

'Say, Cat, what do you reckon this is?' James held aloft a scrap of creased, folded and battered parchment. He told himself it had been lying _next_ to Hagrid's great moleskin jacket. Though, inside a concealed pocket, might have been a better description.

Cat took the note eagerly. She peered at it, squinting in the low light. She held it upside down, left and right. She looked at it with her tongue sticking out, with one eye closed. Next to the window and so close to the fire that James feared she'd burn it. Finally, she tried screwing it into a ball, and was moments from popping it into her mouth before James darted out a hand to take hold of her wrist and stop her.

'No! Cat, it's not one of those notes, I promise.'

She shrugged. 'Well then I don't know. Maybe it's a code. Ooh, we should ask Hagrid!'

'No! Bad idea. I erm… I'm not sure he wanted us to see it.'

Just then, the door to the hut swung open. James' heart leapt. Cat "eeped", and with a panicked, wild look, proceeded to fling the note into her mouth just as Hagrid's hairy visage popped into view.

'Alright in there?' Hagrid asked, a wide grin decorating his broad face.

'Just peachy,' Fred said, mopping his brow with the tails of his shirt.

Cat gave an ungainly, full-cheeked smile. James hastily released her wrist.

'Yell out if yer need a hand. I'm still trying to get some o' these Flobberworms to grow a spine and come in and join yer. They're missin' out on all the fun!'

'Well, that's certainly one way of looking at it,' Tristan said to the door as Hagrid closed it behind him.

'Eck,' Cat said, retrieving the note – somewhat soggier for the experience. 'Tastes like onions.'

The four carried on in their search of the hut. James made his way through the kitchen area, upturning pots and pans stacked haphazardly on shelves so high he had to clamber up to reach them. Their tense search wore on. In the stifling heat, they had to take regular breaks. James' shirt was already plastered to his body with sweat.

Tristan wasn't helping matters by humming 'Come here little snake,' over and over into the darkness.

'Hey, check this out,' James said to the group, nearly folding beneath the weight of a gigantic crossbow, fully loaded, that stood almost as tall as he did.

'Wicked,' Fred breathed. 'I bet he could skewer a dragon at fifty paces with that.'

Cat held out her hands to take a look and James offered it to her, a little surprised when she appeared to take the weight easier that he had. He must have had a poor angle on the lift.

'Woah, no, no, no!' Tristan roared, as Cat had taken the loaded weapon, and was staring directly downward at the poised bolt.

'Huh?' she asked, just as, with a massive _thwang!_ The crossbow released, jettisoning the bolt up towards the ceiling above.

The recoil of the shot sent Cat tumbling backwards, tripping over the bed and cartwheeling backwards so that she became lodged, perfectly upside down behind it. Her feet waved about uselessly in the air above.

'Cat, are you ok?' James asked.

'Well yes,' she said quite calmly. 'Though I do seem to have found the Ashwinder. And she doesn't look very happy to see me.'

Without even thinking, Tristan ran and dove at the gap beneath the bed, his arms outstretched. Just as a loud crash from behind announced the door bursting open.

Hagrid had dashed into the room and instantly been confronted with the scene of James and Fred, tugging on each of Tristan's legs as he kicked and squirmed, wedged beneath the bed. Every so often, he'd yell out something along the lines of 'Woah there, big fellow,' or 'Hey- how'd you like it if I bit _your_ face?' Add to that, Cat's legs waving around in the air where she'd become stuck down the side of the bed, and a still-quivering crossbow bolt lodged into the rafters, and it was all Hagrid could to stroke his beard in disbelief.

Wisely, he said not a word.

When everyone was cleaned and de-ashed and put right way up, thankfully without bursting into flame, Hagrid awarded Gryffindor and Hufflepuff twenty house points apiece. He sent the students on their way with homework of two feet of parchment on the dangers of untended magical fires, and the creatures they attracted. All, that was, except for the four who'd caught the Ashwinder. James didn't even try to keep the smug smile off of his face.

'Just a minute, James,' Hagrid called, as they made their way at the back of the pack up towards the castle. James waved the others on, and turned back down the path.

The late evening air was dragging chilly fingertips across the exposed parts of James' skin. Where his shirt still stuck to his body, goosebumps began to show through. Hagrid peered long and hard at the backs of the receding students, and held up one wide finger when James opened his mouth to speak.

Finally, when they were the only two to be seen anywhere upon the grounds, he gestured for James to follow him inside.

'C'mon in, James. I've got something I want ter ask yer. And I think it's best if nobody else heard. They've got eyes everywhere, y'know.'

Silently, and with piqued curiosity, James followed the half-giant into the shadowy confines of his hut.


	5. Broken

In light of the new, enigmatic tone of their meeting, the darkness of Hagrid's hut took on a far more ominous air. The windows were covered over, not to keep the animals from escaping, but to keep prying eyes out. The stillness – broken only by the writhing Ashwinders trapped behind the grate – was now one of secrecy, and pregnant with conspiratorial portent.

James took the seat offered to him. Hagrid busied himself with boiling the kettle while James played idly with the newly-frozen Ashwinder eggs now on the table, rolling them back and forth in his palm. He was bursting with a thousand questions, but Hagrid had demanded silence, and so he waited. Albeit impatiently.

'Lamington?' Hagrid eventually asked, offering James a tray of the cakes. Despite knowing better, James helped himself, and thanked Hagrid for the small bucket of tea provided.

'So what is it that's such a secret?' his eagerness could be kept at bay no longer. James leaned forward over the table. So wrapped up in the moment was he, that he accidentally took a bite of his lamington. It had the texture of dry sand in his mouth.

'The secret, James Potter, would be me.'

And out from the shadows in the far corner of the room stepped Hogwarts' most freshly-minted of teachers, Professor Sayre. Or, as James knew her, Wren.

'What are you-? How did you-?' he'd checked that _very_ spot she'd appeared from not ten minutes prior whilst hunting for the Ashwinders.

'I don't imagine your tiny mind could comprehend the ways in which I operate, Potter,' Wren sneered. Her sharp cheekbones cast angular shadows across her dusky features. The derision in her tone was matched only by the scorn in those tilted, almond eyes, ever so quick to express her disdain.

'She slipped in the back door while you were out front,' Hagrid said with a grin and a wink. He earned himself a withering glare from Wren for his efforts.

Wren turned up her nose at the lamingtons – admittedly a smart move – and refused the chair that Hagrid offered her, opting instead to stand, and loom over James where he sat. Standing, she just about was as tall as Hagrid was, seated.

'I assume that you are not so dim-witted that you assume Aunt Tia is holidaying in France, right now.'

'Aunt _Tia?_ ' James asked. Renshaw did not seem like one to suffer pet names.

'You know full well of whom I speak.'

James smiled back, but only because he knew it would irk her.

' _Headmistress Renshaw_ is, right now – perhaps even as we speak – preparing to be dragged before _La Séance –_ the French Wizengamot – to face a list of imagined crimes as long as your arm.'

James' eyes popped open, and he froze, mouth agape, bucket of tea halfway to his lips.

'Quite. As you can imagine, I don't intend to take this lying down. As such, I have enlisted the assistance of… _Professor_ Hagrid to help us clear her name. As a multitude of nosey students, and even a few faculty have far too many fingers in Ministry pies, I have elected to do this in a somewhat more clandestine manner.'

'Right…' James smirked. 'Such as writing coded letters, perhaps?'

'I told you to burn that!' Wren scolded Hagrid, who mumbled something along the lines of 'I forgot.'

'So what do I have to do with any of this?' James asked, finally taking a sip of his tea. It tasted of warm dishwater. 'The only French I learned last year are the kind of words you're not supposed to say in front of a council of Elder Witches and Wizards. I'm hardly about to march on over there and demand her freedom.'

Wren pinched the bridge of her nose in an exaggerated display of impatience. 'And that is why great minds like me will always stand behind the idiots such as yourself, Potter.

'A charge of high treason is nothing to be taken lightly. It is what they were threatening after those bloody ponies were attacked on school grounds last year. Under French decree, they have Protected Being status at all times when outside of the country. Their attack is still unexplained. If we can prove that it _wasn't_ Aunt Tia, then I'm confident that they won't have anything to hold against her.'

'So you're not even certain she _didn't_ do it?' James asked with narrowed eyes. The effect was ruined somewhat, however, by his needing to pull a particularly gritty lump of lamington off of his tongue.

'What would she have to gain? It's far more danger to herself than any possible reward it could offer. Angering that upjumped prissy cow Valerie Dufour? Not even the history between them would make it worth the risk.'

'And what might that history be, exactly?'

'Alright, alright,' Hagrid interjected, finally speaking up. 'I think we're getting' a bit off track here.'

James shrugged. Wren regarded him coolly down her nose. Hagrid eyed them both like fighters in either corner of a ring. He downed the entire contents of his mug before continuing.

'James, whatever killed those Abraxans wasn't human. And it sure wasn't no creature of the Forest. Not a regular one, at least. If we find it, and catch it, then odds are we can get Renshaw off the hook. And ease a bit of this ruddy workload as well.'

'More paperwork?' James asked. 'Professor Meadows said as much.'

'Oho, no. No paperwork for me. I'm terrible at it, yeh see. Well, at least I've done it terribly enough times that they've stopper askin' me ter help 'em.' Hagrid's beetle black eyes shone with mirth, as he tapped the side of his nose for only James to see. 'No, I've been on security patrols. 'Round the perimeter. Keep the nasties out and the kiddies in. Day and bloody night. It's a wonder Renshaw ever gets anything done.'

'So I've heard.'

'Aunt Tia operates-'

'In ways us mortals can't understand, we get it,' James rolled his eyes. Wren huffed most indignantly. For a second, she looked as though she were about to dock James house points for his cheek.

'So you'll help?' Hagrid asked. 'It'll involve a fair bit o' trekking through the Forest. Not the nicest work, but blimey, I wouldn't mind seeing her back, you know. Not just to get a bit o' rest for meslf, but it ain't right, what they're doing to her. She always looked out fer you kids. It ain't right…'

'I'm in,' James said, even before Hagrid had finished. 'You can't waft an adventure like that under my nose and expect me to walk away.'

' _Gryffindors,'_ Wren scoffed, with a roll of her eyes that would have even Cassie taking notes.

'When do we start?' James asked. He wondered if Hagrid would let him carry the crossbow…

'Soon. I just need ter arrange a few things first. I was thinking, the two of us could use a bit of help out there.'

James nodded. 'Well if we're tracking things, Tristan can pick up the scent of a Kneazle from a three-day-old fart, and if we're after strange creatures, then Cat might be helpful.'

'Aye, bring 'em along. I'll get a note to yeh when it's time to head off.'

'Excellent.' There was something that looked rather like a sword, tucked in behind the sofa. James was going to call dibs on that when they set out.

'And Potter,' Wren drawled, already moving towards the door as if she couldn't stand the thought of their presence a moment longer. 'I know the art of subtlety is lost on an oaf such as you, so let me make this painfully, abundantly, clear. Do _not_ tell a single soul about this. The only ones to know will be you, muscly, and dreamy. That's it.

'You of all people should know that this castle can be far from a safe place. There are far too many souls with misplaced loyalties that would wish us ill will with this endeavour. These people are vultures, they're worse than scavengers. The moment they sense weakness, they come crawling out of the filth in which they live to seize power in their fat, grubby fists. We _cannot_ let that happen. Do you understand?'

James had crossed Wren once before, and it had been painful. Only Rain's uncanny timing and quick action had saved him. He didn't expect he'd be getting any help from her a second time around. For a moment, there was uncertainty even in Hagrid's dark eyes, and he wondered just what he was agreeing to, and just how deep this conspiracy went.

But when he'd been close to death or Merlin-knows-what at the hands of the Atlanteans in his second year, Renshaw had arrived to save him, even though he'd earlier betrayed her. Hagrid was right – she did right by the kids, whatever other secrets lurked in her past, she'd never stopped protecting them.

It was time he paid her back.

'I'm in,' he nodded, and reached out to clasp Hagrid's massive hand with both of his own.

Tristan and Cat had agreed almost before James had finished explaining what they were agreeing to. Cat had invented an elaborate back story involving Vampires, Werewolves and the missing ghost of the long-lost fifth house of Hogwarts, buried in ruins below the deepest dungeon. Tristan showed James the _Point Me_ spell, and taught him about marking trees so as to avoid walking in circles in the forest.

The excitement was exacerbated by the feeling that James was getting to do something about the disappearances. Renshaw and Rain's absences had been like an itch he couldn't quite scratch, never far from his mind.

Although, this new sensation, one of burgeoning anticipation, did make it difficult to pay complete attention in class, at times.

'James, watch what you're doing!' Holly Brooks squealed, as a silvery, gelatinous mass slipped clean out of James' hands and splattered onto the table, spraying a good portion down the front of her shirt.

James was now absolutely certain that Professor Meadows was trying to force the two of them into making nice. They were currently paired up, right at the front of their Defence Against the Dark Arts class, engaged in a fruitless exercise that appeared more along the lines of interpretive dance than it did anything related to the Foe Glass that they were supposed to be crafting.

'Do not get the Quicksilver on your persons,' Professor Meadows called out over the chaos bubbling throughout the classroom. 'It has been known to leave a lasting, uncomfortable sensation, and can temporarily vanish you from your enemies. Clean it off with _Scourgify_ immediately.'

'Huh,' James mused, frowning at Holly's newly-missing left breast. 'I guess that means this one doesn't like me.'

'James, you _idiot!'_ Holly hissed.

'Alright, alright. _Scougify!'_ he jabbed his wand and all of Holly's anatomy reappeared, intact.

They returned to trying to force the substance into the frame of their would-be Foe-glass mirror, Holly now wrapped in a huffy sort of silence.

Their Quicksilver – fresh from being heavily charmed and charged – was particularly stubborn. It was now a weird sort of texture – a jelly-like mass. Not quite a solid, but certainly no liquid, either. It shimmered in the sunlight and gave distorted reflections of the room around them. It also refused all ministrations from his wand, as if it possessed a mind of its own. All attempts to physically pick the stuff up had resulted in little more than vanished fingers and pins and needles all up James' right arm

The aim was to lay it flat within the mirror-frame and layer a second series of Charms and Hexes on it that would set it to use. Looking around the classroom, it appeared that not a one of them were even remotely close to achieving either of those milestones.

'What's the first incantation,' James asked. 'Is it _Maleficum Dura?'_

' _Dur-o,_ ' Holly scorned, slapping his hand out of the way and lowering her own wand. The Quicksilver quivered nervously within its frame.

'She's doing this on purpose, you know,' James spoke, as Holly began the requisite thirteen iterations of the first of the Charms. He eyed Professor Meadows sidelong. She flashed him a knowing smile of bright pink lips and shining white teeth. 'D'you think she's enjoying it, watching us suffer?'

' _Maleficum Duro_ – just shut up and read the next step, James – _Maleficum Duro,_ dammit. Harden, already.'

'I'm going to assume that last one wasn't directed at me,' James grinned, safely out of arms reach. It appeared he'd been spending rather too much time with Tristan.

James took over the next step, if only to avoid getting himself strangled. Now that they'd achieved a sort of soufflé-like texture to their mirror, he set about layering it with the first round of the Detection Hexes.

' _Reperio Umbra, Simulacrus, Lumen Sempiternum,'_ he muttered, tracing his wand in the gentle figure eight as the Professor had instructed them. A soft, golden light began to shine at the edges of their mirror.

'You're doing it wrong,' Holly hissed. 'The light should be silver. Here-'

She grabbed his wrist and slowed down his motion, making the shape of his eight a little loopier at the ends. The light changed from a warm amber to a cooler, pale silver. James noticed, idly, that Holly had painted her nails. She never used to.

'You know, I heard some people were saying things about you the other week. Spreading rumours.'

Holly released his hand, and his motion faltered. The silvery light died away.

'Oh, so you heard about the Ravenclaw Tower incident, too then?' her words were flippant, but her tone was cool. The first hint of shadowy shapes began to swirl in the mirror between them.

'You know that's not what I meant.'

'I also know that it's not your business. Let them talk, it doesn't bother me.'

James laid his wand on the table. Holly was pointedly not looking at him. Her eyes were fixed on the textbook before her, but he could see that they weren't moving through the text.

'But you don't have to do the things that make them talk. Come back to us. We miss you, _I_ miss you.'

'Oh, well isn't that _noble_ of you, James,' Holly snapped, slamming the book shut. She rounded on him, her pale grey eyes cool and clear as chips of ice. 'How _generous_ of you, to let poor, little, wayward me back in with your group. As if that's what I've always wanted!'

'But it doesn't have to be like this, Holly. This… Anthony Greengrass, the carriage on the train, it's bad people using you because of what they think you can do. And you're letting them. It's not _you_.'

'Don't you _dare_ to presume to tell me what is _not me_ , James Potter. Not after what you did. After you took every bit of me that you knew, built it up, and made it into something that could get you what you _truly_ wanted. And then cast me aside the minute you had it. Whatever Holly that you knew, that you _used_ , is gone now. For good.'

'But it was Odette-'

' _And you let her!'_ Holly's temper finally broke, and she screamed the accusation loud enough for the entire class to hear. There was a sudden intake of breath, followed by expectant, obvious silence as thirty-odd fourth years failed at pretending not to listen in. When Holly continued, her voice was lower, but the damage was done. 'You let her, James, and you can't even see that it was your fault. And now you come in here, joking around like nothing ever happened…'

She trailed off, and James could see the soft glimmer of tears welling in the corner of her eyes. Something deep inside his chest ached at the sight. When Holly spoke again, her voice was little more than a whisper.

'You hurt me, James, when you showed me the real you. And there is nothing that you can say, or that you'll ever be able to do, that can take away the memory of what it felt like that night.'

She grabbed her belongings and stormed from the room, right as the end of class was signalled. With the show over, the rest of the class followed suit, until James alone was left behind. On the Foe-glass at his desk, a pair of pale dots were slowly vanishing into grey mist.

'Well, at least she's got it off her chest, now,' Professor Meadows suggested hopefully.

'No.' James growled, standing up and packing away the mirror with his own belongings. He looked Professor Meadows dead in the eye. 'No more.'

She at least had the decency to look apologetic.


	6. Colour

The hour was early. A few ragged streamers of mist hung low and sheepish over the Black Lake, twisting and roiling on the sighing breeze, shifting and melting, too scared to form into anything more substantial.

The sky was clear. A pale sun peeked tentatively over the jagged horizon. Its watery light promised warmth more than provided it. James Potter's breath didn't quite mist in the air before him, but there was an edge to the morning that promised the best days of summer were behind them, and that the night would soon begin stealing hours from the day, in that unstoppable march towards the bleak, northern winter.

James was alone on the narrow path that led to the Hogwarts Owlery. His footsteps crunched on the winding gravel. His presence startled a flock of birds from the boughs of a nearby tree. If there was a tone to their twittering, it was certainly indignant at the early morning disruption to their musical routine.

Ascending the narrow staircase to the Owlery proper afforded James a glimpse of the sprawling grounds, lapping at the foot of the domineering edifice that was Magic-kinds glaring imprint on the serene countryside scene. Here, the lilting tune of songbirds gave way to the purring, cooing sounds of the Hogwarts owl population, and the fresh morning scent to the attendant mess that came with some three hundred of the birds.

' _Scourgify,'_ James muttered, clearing a path through the worst of it. He picked out a plain, brown school owl. Unremarkable, indistinguishable from a dozen or so others within arms' reach. Perfect for his needs.

Odette had handed him the first piece of the puzzle, with her talk of writing letters at the start of term. Others had helped him complete it, whether they knew so or not. The year so far had brought nothing but questions for James. As he watched his chosen owl ruffle its feathers in satisfaction, he nodded to himself. It was time to start seeking some answers.

The burst of movement from his bird taking flight – freshly burdened with James' letter – startled a few others in the vicinity. They glared down at him with baleful eyes, but James wasn't looking. His own gaze was fixed on the shining blue amulet he'd just produced from his pocket. His thumb was tracing soft circles on the cool, clear surface. Quiet, since that night in Professor Meadows' office, he wondered what it could mean.

More questions, to which he had no answers.

As his bird faded from sight, he pocketed the locket and turned from the room. The hour was early, and the day had much in store for him yet.

'Dad! What are you doing here?'

Less than an hour from his trip to the Owlery, and James stood at the gates to the Quidditch pitch. His broom sat draped across his shoulder, gleaming with polish in the morning light. His expression was one of shocked delight.

'Well, I wasn't going to miss my two boys in their first ever Quidditch match together now, was I?'

James allowed himself to be pulled into a rough hug. A number of early comers to the game were trickling by around them. No few stopped to point and gawk at Harry Potter in their midst.

'Harry! James! Good ter see you!' Hagrid's booming voice frightened most of those who had paused to stare. They scurried off with many a frightened glance over their respective shoulders.

To James, Harry said, 'And I was long overdue a few catch-ups, as well.' He turned to Hagrid and threw his arms wide. 'Hagrid! You're getting fatter every day.'

'And you're as grey as a unicorn's arse-hair, but half as pretty!' The pair embraced, Hagrid's massive arms enveloping Harry. A giant hand clapped on James' shoulder nearly caused him to stagger.

'How have you been Hagrid?' Harry asked, straightening his glasses. 'It's been too long.'

'Aye, too long indeed. I've been well Harry. Been real well. Sirius is growin' by the day. Almost up to me waist, now. Ruddy coward still won't bark at the crows, though. They been all over the pumpkin patch this summer.'

'Tell him you'll find a new pup who can do it better. That ought to kick him into gear.'

'Aye, it always used to.'

'And how about the _other stuff,'_ Harry asked, putting a very pointed emphasis on the phrase. He guided the three of them out of the main flow of traffic to the stadium and into a shadowed corner behind the spare broomstick shed.

'Comin' along just fine,' Hagrid grinned. 'Got me crossbow good an' polished. Made sure the umbrella's still working, an' I've got that book on Classified Magical Creatures that Professor Sayre passed on.'

Hearing Wren referred to as "Professor Sayre" was only the second-most alarming thing in that sentence.

' _Classified_?' James asked, his eyes lighting up.

'Oh, er… Probably shouldn't have said that,' Hagrid mutter. 'Should not have said that…'

'It's fine,' Harry grinned. 'He'll find out eventually. That is, if you're still happy to come into the Forest with us, James?'

 _Us?_ An adventure into the Forbidden Forest with Harry Potter to track down, well… Merlin only knew what. James couldn't say 'Yes!' fast enough.

'Good job. Best not to mention it to anyone though. Even Al and Lily, just for now. And, erm, probably not your mother, either. That is unless you'd like to be a single-parent family from now on.'

James flashed his father a knowing smile. 'Not a soul.'

They moved back around toward the entrance, and Hagrid bade them farewell, with a final wish of good luck to James. They were playing against Slytherin, after all.

Al and Lily were just as shocked as James to see their father waiting for them. Though naturally, Lily tried hard to hide it behind the cool, icy façade she had decided all Slytherins must wear.

'Look out Al, it's the _enemy,'_ James teased, throwing himself between his brother and sister mock-protectively.

'Oh grow up, James,' Lily huffed, with an angry flick of her long, red locks.

'Thirteen going on thirty,' Harry smiled, ruffling both of their hair. To _both_ of their annoyance. James worked hard on his "just-off-a-broomstick" look.

'But seriously though Lil, you're cheering for us today, right?' James plucked at her silver-and-green scarf as if it were a thing diseased.

Lily shot a furtive look up and down the path they were gathered on. Not a soul was in sight. A gentle murmur of noise was drifting out the gates from those gathered in the stadium. Without speaking, she unfastened the top buttons of her blouse, flashing them all a glimpse of a bright red and gold t-shirt underneath.

'That's my girl!' Harry roared with laughter. 'Too sneaky even for the Slytherins. It's a wonder we managed to raise you without the house burning down around us.'

'Well,' James pointed out. 'There was that time-'

'Hi Al.'

James' mouth clicked shut as a group of Ravenclaw third-year girls walked past. A tall, blonde one with glasses and a shy smile waved at Al. She waved the tasselled end of a Gryffindor scarf in his direction. 'We're all cheering for you.'

'Er- thanks,' Al stammered, as they scurried off into the stadium.

'Al,' James said with a grin slowly spreading across his face. 'Who in Merlin's name was _that?'_

'And not just one,' Lily smirked, nudging Al playfully. 'He's got himself a whole fan club.'

'Nobody,' Al hastened to say. 'Just some Ravenclaws.' His cheeks and neck were a bright, healthy red.

'Some Ravenclaws you're taking to Hogsmeade, perhaps?' James prodded.

Uncomfortable under the sudden attention, Al chose attack as the best form of defence.

'Dad has James told you he's dating the Slytherin Seeker?'

'Am not!' James reflexively blurted out. But had to instantly scan their surrounds to make sure nobody overheard.

'Personally, I'm relieved,' Harry said with a mock-serious face. 'Because James, you've been shooting so many sideways glances over at the Slytherin changing rooms I was wondering if we were going to need to have a word.'

'Frankly, I don't know what she sees in you,' Lily coolly informed him. Her green eyes sparkled the way they always did when making fun of her brothers. 'You're not even the best catch of your friends. Have you _seen_ the arms on Tristan Macmillan-'

'Gross, Lily!' Al exclaimed.

'As _if!'_ James laughed. 'He'd never fancy you, Lily. You're like half his age. And besides, if he did, I'd cut off his-'

' _James,'_ Harry warned with a stern tone.

'Fingers,' James finished limply.

'I'm a _mature_ thirteen,' Lily sniffed. 'And I'd like to see you try.'

'C'mon, Al,' James rolled his eyes. 'Let's go before this gets any weirder.'

The boys bade farewell to their father and sister, and made their way to the pitch together. Al's face was losing its colour rather quickly. The distracting familial chat had only kept his mind at ease for so long.

'You'll be fine, Al,' James assured him. 'Fred and I will be there all the way. Just pretend it's the back yard.'

The stadium opened up abruptly before them. The perfectly manicured lawns of bright green. The golden goal hoops glinting in the morning sunlight. House flags of all colours and then some fluttered lazily on the soft breeze. In their bright red jumpers, with brooms slung over their shoulders, there was no mistaking who the boys were. As those already gathered noticed them, the beginnings of a cheer fired up, stoked by the electric anticipation that preceded the first match of the year.

'Little bigger than the back yard,' Al whispered.

James held up his arms to the onlookers, as the roar began to form into words, ' _Potter! Potter!'_

'Aye, a bit. And it's ours for the taking, now.' James grabbed Al's arm and lifted it up. A renewed cheer burst forth, including a bout of screaming from the Ravenclaw stand nearby.

In the change rooms the mood was tense and on edge. Only Fred seemed unaffected.

'There's the man of the hour!' he laughed, clapping Al on the shoulder as the two of them entered. 'How do we feel, excited? Nervous? Aware that over a thousand people are going to be scrutinising your every move and talking about it for weeks to come?'

'I think I need the bathroom,' Al groaned.

'Nonsense,' James assured him, guiding him over to their adjacent lockers. 'Get your kit on, have a drink, run through the game plan in your head. It's what helps me when I'm nervous. _If_ I'm nervous.'

'You don't get worried?' Al asked, a note of awe in his voice.

'Not anymore,' James shot with a wink. 'I'm the Hero of Hogwarts, now. _They_ should be worrying about _me.'_

Fred rolled his eyes in the background and reached out to cuff James over the ear.

'Alright, listen up everyone,' Carina finally called to the room. The noise outside was building. It grew in volume and pitch until it was stretched tight with anticipation, willing the players forth with its urgency.

Inside the room, all fell silent for the captain's speech. They gathered in a tight circle, with Carina at their centre. Her dark hair was tied back, ready for the match. Her dark eyes surveyed each of them in kind.

'Today is the first match of the season. We're a new team, not. Some of us haven't played for a couple years. Slytherin are going to be good, I've been watching them all week. But I know that we are better. So let's get out there and show them what it means to be Gryffindor!'

The group gave a single cheer, as one. James looked around at all of them. The nervous twitched were still there. Eyes still darted impatiently to the doors, wondering when they would open and signal the beginning.

Carina was a brilliant Keeper. She was kind, humble, and quick to praise her teammates. But she lacked the raw determination that Ryan O'Flaherty had possessed, or the sparling charisma of Archie MacDougal as predecessor.

With a questioning tilt of his head, James asked to take the floor. Carina stepped aside and he shifted forward into the centre of the circle.

He'd lied to Al. He felt nerves. _Plenty_ of them. Looking around, so did everyone else. Their eyes were close and guarded. They'd shut themselves off, retreating into their own little world before the game, Thinking, obsessing, over what they might be called upon to do. Somebody needed to draw them out.

That somebody might as well be James.

'It's Al's first game in the jersey today,' James said. He locked eyes with each member of the team as he spoke, forcing them to draw their gaze upwards, towards him. 'And I know that he's the best damned Seeker we'll have seen in a long time. I know that he'll go out there and catch the Snitch, because that's what he does.

'And I know, sure as the sun is shining, that I'll play better because he is here with us. Because I'll be playing for _him._ I'll be playing to show him what it means to wear this red and gold. What it means to be a part of the greatest team, in the greatest house.

'I'm not just playing for myself, today. My father is out in the stands. My sister smuggled in a Gryffindor shirt under her Slytherin robes. There are three hundred people out there in the red-and-gold. I know you've all got brothers and sisters among them. Hell, Lynch, maybe you've even found a girlfriend. These are the people we're playing for. Pick one, or pick a dozen. They're counting on us here today.'

He paused, and turned a full circle among them. There was a burgeoning, determined spark behind the eyes that returned his stare now. _Good._

'And by Merlin, if there's not six other people in this school I'd rather have at my side to show them what we can do!'

The doors to the pitch flew open upon James' final word, but the sounds of the crowd were momentarily drowned out by the uproar from within the Gryffindor changing rooms, as the team all cheered together. James smiled as they ran onto the pitch with heads high and backs straight.

Al pulled him aside at the last second. A shadow of doubt still lingered on his brother's face.

'Did you mean all that?' he asked tentatively. 'About me being that good?'

'Course I did, you bloody garden gnome. Now let's get out there and make sure I don't look like a tit for saying it.'

Side by side, the Potter boys stepped out into the light of day, and were embraced by the roar of a crowd cheering their name.

The rush of wind in his face as James took to the air greeted him like the embrace of a lost lover. The familiar surge of excitement in his chest, the way his heart raced, and his breath came quick and hot and fast. The feeling of being alive like nothing else could give. He raced to the far end of the pitch and back, flipped a loop in the centre to the delight of the crowd. His broom was handling perfectly.

Slytherin took to the skies, and an equal cheer greeted them. Odette found her way over to where James hovered, no doubt it wasn't an accident. He greeted her with a curt nod of the head. They hadn't spoken about this. In fact, they'd hardly spoken at all since the year began. He'd got the feeling he had done something wrong, without knowing what it was, or how to fix it. He briefly thought of turning his broom around as a tendril of nerves crept back in. _She_ remained the only thing that could truly give James Potter uncertainty out here on the pitch, his second home.

There was something… different about her, this morning. 'New uniform,' James noted, gesturing to the subtle border of silver serpents marching up the sleeves of Odette's robes.

She gaped at him, incredulous. 'So you notice _that,_ but not the fact that I'd completely changed my hair over the holidays?!'

James just shrugged. 'It's Quidditch,' was his only explanation.

'I'm going to enjoy beating you, o rose of my heart,' Odette mocked.

'Well, my delicate little flower petal,' James returned in kind. 'I've brought a bucket down to the pitch. Try not to overfill it with your tears, when we win.'

Declan Hawksby blew his whistle, signalling the captains to the centre. James blew Odette a kiss as she glared at him over her shoulder. Throughout the handshake and the well-wishing between captains, Odette had eyes only for James.

The game got off to an explosive start, as James' lightning broom allowed him to snatch the Quaffle. A James-Preston-James set of passes drew in two defenders and freed up Abbey Fisher for a shot, which she slotted in through the right hand goal hoop to give Gryffindor a lead before some people had even taken their seats.

Off the ensuing possession, James intercepted a Slytherin pass and managed to heave a deep ball downfield to Preston Lynch, who beat two defenders by himself and doubled Gryffindor's lead. Not even a full minute of play had passed. Spirits were high. James flashed Lynch a thumbs up, before signalling their next defensive play using their team's secret hand gestures.

James abruptly learned to keep his focus directed on the activities at hand, as a passing glance up at where Odette was circling high above, caused him to miss a pass from Abbey, and Slytherin to score off the resulting turnover.

'Oi!' Fred called with a mocking laugh. 'Stop trying to get a peek up your girlfriend's robe. We've got a game to win!'

Slytherin gained confidence from their first goal, and they stuck around from that point in. The game turned into something of a chess match, with Gryffindor drawing ahead at the slowest of margins, so that the game would have to stretch on for a full day before they'd be safe without catching the Snitch.

Because the truth was that they were never really safe when Odette Mansfield was on the opposing team.

As Slytherin scored again, to make it ninety points to sixty in Gryffindor's favour, James received possession from Carina off the restart.

He signed Lynch to push far ahead up the right flank, and for Abbey to stay close on his left, in a move they had graciously dubbed "The Limp".

James weaved up the pitch, Quaffle tucked under his arm. He moved slowly, trying to look uncertain, as if he couldn't find a play to make. The Slytherin Chasers sneered at him as they closed in. He reared up on his broom, as if to throw a wild pass deep to Lynch, where he hovered clearly out of range.

The Slytherins anticipated that, and moved in to position to counter it. But as he brought his arm back to make the throw, he allowed the Quaffle to roll out the back of his hand, dropping directly down beneath him, to where Abbey zoomed by on a sharp angle to snatch it and tear up the unguarded left flank.

Fred and Ash Attaway both sent pinpoint-perfect Bludgers to deter any Slytherin defence, and Abbey easily beat the Keeper to bring up a hundred points for Gryffindor.

The crowd roared as the announcer celebrated the milestone. The whole team cheered at the group effort behind their latest goal. James lapped it up. Seldom did he feel as at home anywhere in Hogwarts as he did on the pitch. All his other worries and concerns shied back from the enjoyment of the task at hand, the fever-pitch of his racing heart, and the challenge before him of outwitting his opponents to score their next goal.

Slytherin's counter-attack off the restart was fast and hard. They passed the Quaffle back and forth between their chasing trio with impressive dexterity. It was likely the best passage of play that they'd produced all match, and it was completely disregarded by the majority of the crowd, who burst into a wild cheer as both Seekers plummeted into a sudden dive from either ends of the pitch.

Even James found his attention torn away from the matters at hand. Al had the shorter distance to the Snitch where it hovered, around fifty feet up over the midfield mark. But his path was blocked by two burly Beaters clad in green-and-silver, both of whom had control of the Bludgers. Odette, meanwhile, had nothing but clear air ahead of her, and she was a bolt of green lightning, streaking down from her circling position on high.

The noise of the crowd reached a fever pitch. Al's path to the Snitch was fraught with danger. James could already see him shaving the edge off his speed, assessing the unwavering obstacles before him. It was to be an impossible task. Unless…

James leaned forward on his broom and shot up the pitch towards his brother, completely ignoring the Slytherin Chaser he was supposed to be defending, and letting in the softest goal of the match. If Al caught the Snitch, it wouldn't matter. And James trusted Al, if he trusted anyone, to make the play.

The first Bludger shot forth in his brother's direction. James barely looked up as the crowd gasped. Al had sloth-grip-rolled to avoid it, as James guessed he would. But now, there was no time for him to right himself. He'd lost almost all the advantage over Odette. James could see her from his own periphery, closing from an easy angle. Al, currently upside-down, still had to weave between two Beaters, at almost point-blank range. He was going to have to do something truly remarkable to dodge the final blow.

And he did. Over fifty feet in the air, and still a good few yards away from the Snitch, Al let go of his broom. The second Bludger sung through the air right where he'd been half a heartbeat before. The crowd hushed, their disbelief momentarily stifling the uproar, as Al's momentum carried him forwards, between the two, gobsmacked Beaters, down towards the Snitch in uncontrolled freefall.

James didn't have time to look up. He didn't have time to be buffeted by the explosion of noise that erupted from the spectators. His entire focus was on manoeuvring into place and reaching out one arm to grab a falling Al by the collar, and fling him up onto the back of his own broom before his brother fell to the unforgiving turf below.

Finally, with his brother safe, and a glimmer of gold dancing in the corner of his vision, did James let himself breathe, and let the adoration of the crowd flense his worries free as they chanted his name – _their_ name – together.

'You're insane!' James roared to be heard. He could feel Al physically shaking behind him. His brother's breathing was rushed and ragged in his ear.

'I trusted you, brother!' Al yelled back.

 _Aye,_ James thought. _And I, you._

The possibility of further conversation was lost as the team descended on them, and they sunk slowly to the pitch together, arm-in-arm, chanting their victory in time with the crowd.

Outside the stadium once more, James revelled in the four-way hug between himself, Al, Fred and his father. Lily stood off a little way in protest, her nose turned up and her arms crossed, but James could see that glimmer of joy in her eye that spoke of her truest loyalty.

It seemed that while one could take the Potter out of Gryffindor, one could never truly remove the Gryffindor from the Potter.

'Well done, boys!' Harry laughed, tousling Al's hair affectionately. 'Al, I've dodged some wild Bludgers in my time, but that was some of the best I've seen. Looks like a summer spent dodging fireworks might not have been misspent after all.'

Fred puffed up with pride, as if the victory had been his and his alone. He shot James a wink and a knowing look.

James peeled away from the group as he saw a single figure emerging from the direction of the Slytherin changing rooms.

'Good luck,' Fred said gravely. 'You're a braver soul than I. Quick, as a final wish bequeath me your broomstick.'

'Shove off,' James laughed, and made his way over to where Odette was leaving the stadium, decidedly alone.

He hesitated as he approached. Despite this very moment having run through his head a thousand times leading up to the match, he'd still never found an outcome that had left him feeling prepared for its occasion. It was unlikely that there were two people in the castle that cared more about the game than the pair of them. He'd tried to think what he would have wanted, had he been on the losing team. But Odette's mind was a completely different paradigm to his own, and so he could only guess at what might be best. She noticed his presence, and the decision was made for him. He couldn't turn back now.

'Hey, Odette,' he called, a little uncertainly. He could hear the hesitation in his own voice and it sounded childish.

She stopped and faced him. Her shoulders were set, in something akin to defiance. Her face was red and her hair hung loose and wet, as if she'd lingered overlong in the showers. Perhaps hoping all others would have left by the time she emerged. She wore a Slytherin jersey that was either a very large jumper, or a very short dress, and no shoes. A far cry from her usual peak fashion.

'Come to gloat?' she asked, her voice flat and inflectionless. It struck a melancholy chord within James.

'No, I… Sorry. I just came to see how you were?' _Sorry?_ It sounded stupid the moment it left James' lips.

'How do you think?'

'Yeah, I guess. I don't really know what the protocol is, here. Do we hug? Talk?'

Odette raised her eyes. A few drops of moisture still clung to her lashes. 'Hug, or don't hug. Do whatever you want, James. But _do_ it, like a man. Don't stand there apologising and asking like a child. Pity makes me sick.'

She pushed past him where he stood, and he let her go, running a hand through his hair in dismay and staring at the spot she'd been occupying. Of all the thousand times he'd run through that scenario, none had gone quite _that_ badly in his mind.

The party in the common room that night was massive. But James tried to distance himself from it, despite his house-mates intent on making him and Al the centre of attention. He sipped a glass of Butterbeer in the corner by a dormant fire, while Fred watched on with glee as student after student squawked in alarm as their mugs transfigured into melons or shoes or once even a live polecat, in their very hands.

They had to move seats rather abruptly, as a seventh-year couple decided to celebrate the affair quite vigorously on the couch next to them. James decided he'd call it an evening when something pink and lacy was flung by less than an inch from his mug.

'Might head up to bed,' he told Fred, downing the last of his drink and setting it aside. Fred looked disappointed as it chose that inopportune moment to finally turn itself into a deflated Quaffle.

'Still sulking?' he asked with a playful glint in his eye.

'The Hero of Hogwarts doesn't _sulk,'_ James informed him pointedly.

'Enjoy that crown while you've got it, mate. Reckon the King of Gryffindor is going to get a bigger one.'

Fred gestured over to where Al was being repeatedly tossed into the air by a group of sixth-year students. He had a photograph of his catching the Snitch in one hand and was trying to stick it to the ceiling.

As James made his way up the stairs, a new commotion sounded from the room below. Confusion undercut the revelry, and the sound of someone being goaded.

'Bring her in!' he heard someone cry. The entire house took up the chant.

'Bring her in! Bring her in! Bring her in!'

Something in their voices made James pause, and he watched with trepidation as the newcomer who marched into the room through the portrait hole cut a very familiar figure indeed.

' _Boo,_ Snakes!'

'Slytherin stinks!'

'Hey Mansfield, how's it feel getting beaten by a rookie?'

'Potter! Potter! Potter!'

The chant began again in earnest. James hurried to push his way through the crowd, throwing elbows carelessly as he did. Inexplicably, his heart was racing in his throat.

He burst through the press to find himself face-to-face with Odette. The other Gryffindors made a small ring around them, not even bothering to hide their looking on avidly. Odette was glaring around the room at them all in turn. She'd dried her hair and put on shoes since last they spoke. The green-sequined serpent entwined around the arm of her jumper winked coolly in the low light.

'What- what are you doing here?' James stammered.

'Ditch her, Potter!' someone called from the back of the room.

Odette shrugged. 'Slytherin common room's not a fun place to be right now. At least not for me.'

'And you thought that _here_ might be? Do you, erm, want a drink?'

'Drink Centaur-piss Slytherin!'

They both ignored the jeer, and for the second time that day Odette looked at him flatly and answered, 'What do you think?'

'Right. Of course. A walk, then.'

James looped his arm through Odette's and stalked out towards the exit. He marched as if he knew the crowd would part for him. Where it didn't, he forced them aside. One of the older students dropped a crass suggestion about what James and Odette might be off to do, and James left him with a Stinging Jinx that he'd still be feeling come the morning.

As the portrait sealed off the sounds of the party behind them, James released a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding, and set off down through the castle.

Odette seemed content to walk in silence. After their exchange earlier in the day, James wasn't about to be the one to broach conversation again.

There was a stillness to the castle, to which the late hour afforded a conspiratorial, secretive air. It was as if the students who filled the corridors through the day with their laughter and chatter, and the excitement of their presence, left a palpable void behind in their absence. And it was this emptiness into which the couple ventured together. The soft hushing of their breath answered the sighing wind that was finally allowed to be heard. Their pale skin and dark clothing mirrored the monochromatic world around them, painted in black and white and shades of dappled grey. Together they faded in and out of vision, wading through puddles of spilled moonlight, their shadows flickering into existence one moment, only to be gone by the next heartbeat, as furtive and tentative as the way their hands drifted towards one another and away again, the moment before they'd touch.

James hadn't been heading anywhere specific. But when his meandering path took him to the foot of a familiar, narrow stairwell, he stopped and smiled. Perhaps his feet had been leading him here all along.

'After you,' he gestured, casting off the first words into the gulf of silence between them.

Odette smiled, and James followed her up to the balcony atop the clock tower.

The air outside was fresh and mild. The wind was little more than gentle fingers through James' hair, or a soft caress on his bared arms. The crescent moon leaked argent light across the entirety of the Lake. The sea that was the treetops of the Forbidden Forest, however, stood unperturbed by its presence. Dark and unknowable. Malevolent in its silence.

Far off, an owl wheeled, stalking prey in the darkness.

'I should apologise,' Odette finally spoke. She gripped the railing with both hands. Her gaze was lost, far out over the grounds. What she saw out there, James could only guess. He contented himself by taking her side, so that their shoulders might brush with an occasional touch.

'I would have been upset, had our places been switched,' James said. Below them, the trickling of the fountain could barely be heard.

'No. Not for today. But for that, as well. I meant for the whole term so far. I've been avoiding you. I haven't treated you fairly.'

James shot her a look, but she was still fixated on something near the inky horizon. He'd had the feeling something had been lurking between them from the moment they greeted one another at the opening feast. 'I'll be honest, it's felt like we've taken two steps forward, and three steps back. The only thing that's changed is the whispers about us behind our backs.'

Instead of responding, Odette simply stated, 'Your friend is missing.' James wished she'd turn and face him.

'Yes…' was his slow and questioning reply.

'Are you looking for her?'

'Of course. I mean, I don't really know where to look. People say she's transferred schools, or moved overseas for medical treatment. But it's all rumours. Nobody knows for sure. Renshaw would know, but she's gone too…' James cut himself off; he'd begun rambling.

Odette's response was a single word: 'Why?'

Now she did turn to face him. In the moonlight, her features were cut from silver and grey, but her eyes were filled with an array of emotions that James was not accustomed to seeing from Odette Mansfield. Not least among them was trepidation.

'She's my friend. I want to know what happened to her.'

'And that is all that lies between you? Friendship?'

'Yes.' This time it was his turn to answer flatly.

'You would do all of this for someone who is merely your _friend?'_

A sudden thought struck James. That maybe, Odette didn't understand the strength of the bonds of James' friendships because she didn't have any true ones of her own. That she couldn't comprehend that what he did was in no way seeking personal gain or gratification. The thought made him quite sad. That would be a lonely existence, indeed.

'I'd do the same for Clip or Cat or Cassie. For Tristan, or I suppose even Fred if it came to it. Merlin, Odette, but I'd do the same for _you.'_

He took both of her hands then, and peered into her eyes, desperately trying to fathom what it was that was fuelling the uncertainty. Of what fears were driving this track of questioning. What she'd done or heard or seen, that he hadn't.

She looked on the verge of speaking. Her lips parted, and she met his gaze with the hint of a defensive stare, but merely a single breath sighed forth, and she sagged, releasing his grip and turning once more to survey the castle grounds. She looked alone, despite James' obvious proximity.

'But you don't look at me the same way you look at her,' Odette whispered. 'I've seen it. The way that suddenly, when you see her, it's like nobody else matters. Like you can barely keep your feet around her, as if you're relying on her to keep you upright. Like she's the other half to your whole.'

James squeezed his eyes shut tight, until he saw stars. And so they arrived at the crux of the matter at last. He named himself a fool for not having anticipated it sooner.

'It happens,' he told her. He kept his voice deliberately calm and steady. The result was a slightly forced sound to his syllables. 'I don't know what it is, or why it happens – maybe that sounds bad, but it's just the truth. It happens the same way that if I bank on my broomstick I'll turn. Or if I upend my goblet I'll spill pumpkin juice. It's a thing that happens. A reaction to an action. When I look at Rain, I get dizzy. I don't get it. They say it might be caused by our magics. That we're incompatible, or too alike. I haven't a clue.

'But I know that what happens when I'm with you isn't just a quirk of our magic. That when I see you my heart quickens. That when you laugh it makes me smile as well. That the only thing that makes me happier than watching you fly is to be there alongside you. I might not know just why it all happens, but I reckon I know exactly what it means.'

There it was again – that knife-edge moment where Odette looked ready to speak. This time it was swallowed up as she collapsed into him, wrapping her arms about him and resting her head into his neck.

'I'll never be second James,' she whispered. 'Not for anyone. Not even you. So… thank you. And I'm sorry. For what I've done. And for what I haven't done, as well.'

'There's only you,' James whispered back. 'There is only us.'

She pulled back, but held onto his hands. Tightly, now. 'If I'm honest, James, I don't know if I'm ready for this. For us.'

'Good,' he told her. 'Because I know I'm not.'

He broke one hand free to tilt her chin upwards towards him, and long did they stare into each other's eyes. Only the barest hint of uncertainty skittered across James' vision, but it was enough for Odette to have noticed.

'Don't hesitate, James. Don't ever give us the opportunity to run. Don't let us back down.'

And so James didn't. He leaned forwards and kissed Odette full and firm on the mouth. And at the first touch of her lips, his black and white night erupted into one of brightest colour.


	7. Interlude I

The grand dining room was a setting fit for the kings and queens of old. Great chandeliers hung from the ceiling, defying their delicate fixings with great masses of dripping crystal, spilling downward in a glittering cascade. The light from the dozens of candles they bore set the gilt-edged plasterwork on the ceiling aflame. Angles and carvings so delicate and eye-catching as to be a feature in themselves.

Scores of portraits lined the walls, all shifting their dresses or ruffling their robes in agitation. They stared down long, aristocratic noses at those gathered beneath them with an air of pompous disapproval. A large, yawning fireplace dominated an entire wall, the hearth cut from the finest white marble. Delicate fissures shot through it like glistening spider webs. Veins of pure gold were coming ablaze in the stead of the fireplace itself.

And in the centre of the room a vast, domineering table ran the entire length. It's dark, polished hue gave off a warmth not reciprocated by any of the room's inhabitants. High-backed, rigid chairs seated four on one of the long sides, and only one on the other. The one was clearly under scrutiny of all of her peers. There was no doubt that this was an interrogation.

But it was the one who was leaning back as casually as the seating would allow, and sipping gently on a flute of champagne, while the four looked on in obvious distress.

'And thus you see, Monsieur and Madames, that should you try and prosecute me for harm befalling your student in the stampedes that occurred at the end of the last school year, that it will not go well for you. Not in the slightest.'

Galatea Renshaw smiled a cool, mirthless smile over the top of her crystal glass.

Samuel Savatie, a pompous arse with a greying moustache too big for his narrow face, slammed the table with his fist, setting the glassware to dancing precariously. 'Zis is… is… _preposterous!'_

Renshaw met his eyes and said nothing, only holding out her hand to signal for more wine. Her French was perfectly fluent, though she much prepared to keep that fact hidden from her interrogators, and watch them fumble about in heavily-accented, clunky English.

And it kept her privy to certain whispered conversations among her aggressors that they had thought were private.

' _She must be lying,'_ Savatie shot in French to the regal-looking witch on his left – Renshaw's right – Loretta Daviau. She adjusted her delicate glasses, but did not respond. Both high-ranking members of the board of Beauxbatons Academy, it had been they who had brought these charges before her, finally made official.

To Renshaw's far left sat the face of that officialdom. And a young face it was, indeed. Ghyslaine Lucas, Chancellor of _La Séance_ , the French equivalent of Britain's Wizengamot. With features too angular to truly be beautiful, and eyes too narrow and sharp, her age could have made her a daughter of Renshaw's. She, too, showed the first signs of agitation, as she fidgeted with an unused spoon before her.

' _She cannot be. Too much of her story adds up. You old fools have become soft and clumsy in your age. How can she know?'_

The fourth figure was the only one not showing any indication of discomfort. The imposing figure of Valerie Dufour sat with her arms crossed, touching neither food nor drink, her expression implacable. It was to her that Renshaw spoke.

'Surely, you could not have thought to commit conspiracy against me within the very walls of Hogwarts herself? I am astounded that you could be so naïve. This is _Hogwarts_ we speak of. The walls have ears, the very wind in the trees sings to me of the malevolence you plotted.

'Your clumsy owls to one another were effortlessly intercepted. Your whispered conversations overheard. Memories, gathered. To think, to harm one of your own just to get at me? Childish and petty, at best. Outright stupid, is more like it. Understand this: _nothing_ happens at Hogwarts without my knowledge, or acquiescence.'

'We will see you locked away!' Ghyslaine spat, finally some emotion showing through in those flat, cold eyes.

Renshaw smiled. 'Forcing your favourite students into positions of power is a tired old trick, Valerie. Does she even know she is little more than your puppet?'

Ghyslaine rounded on Valerie Dufour, who ignored her. She had eyes only for Renshaw. One corner of her mouth was quirked upwards in a knowing smile. Finally, it was her turn to speak.

'You think you have won, Galatea? Oh, but we have only had the appetiser. Just wait until you see the main course!'

She clapped her hands and servants materialised from narrow, hidden side doors. As they bustled around the five gathered at the table, Dufour spoke coolly, devoid of inflection.

'At all costs. This is what you taught me. This was our mantra, our _life,_ for many years. We must protect what we discovered at all costs. We must keep our knowledge hidden at all costs. We must do what needs to be done _at all costs._ Thus was your rhetoric. Your dogma. And we adopted it, when you showed us the price of inaction.'

'And you betrayed it,' spat Renshaw. 'The moment it was convenient.'

'I betrayed _you,_ Galatea. I never betrayed the idea. You forgot yourself. You thought that you _were_ the idea, and that it was you. You became so intertwined with it that eventually it was your glory, not our salvation that we were forced to work towards. And so I did what needed to be done. That time, you managed to escape to America. This time-'

'This time, you've tried to betray me again. And failed.'

'Oh, but Galatea, I 'ave done no such thing. What you have done is, again, inexcusable.'

Dufour gestured to Ghyslaine, who cleared her throat and glared at Renshaw with triumph in her eyes. For the briefest of moments, and for the first time that evening, a shadow of doubt flashed across Renshaw's face.

'Galatea Renshaw, I hereby charge you with High Treason against the noble country of wizarding France, and all of her people, for the knowing murder of a protected Abraxan winged horse placed under your care. The charge of High Treason carries a sentence of thirty years in the towers of Nurmengard.'

Renshaw's eyes darted from the pinch-faced young witch, to Dufour and back again. Samuel Savatie clutched his belly and laughed, so that Renshaw wanted to Hex him in the face.

'This is ridiculous! That animal was attacked by something from the Forest. You and I both know that.'

' _We_ know no such thing, Galatea,' Dufour preened. 'And I believe it was by your own admission just now that nothing happens at Hogwarts without your permission. Ergo…'

A flick of her wrist, and the doors to their room burst open. A dozen witches and wizards in slate-grey robes burst in through the doors, wands already drawn, and Renshaw realised that this had been the game all along. All airs were being dropped. Her time as a "guest" at the behest of the French aristocracy was over in most abrupt fashion.

'You'll never get away with this,' Renshaw hissed, as the guards surrounded her, all of their wands were lowered, their bodies tense, expecting trouble. 'Search my memories, try me under Veritaserum, you'll see.'

'Oh, but Galatea, we both know that for witches as powerful as you or I, there are ways around both.'

'This is criminal!'

'The evidence points overwhelmingly towards your guilt, Galtea. At least, it does from where _we_ sit. And we are the ones who matter. You can provide no proof in your defence. I suspect your trial will be a short one. Your stay in Nurmengard, however… not so much.'


	8. Cries

Five people – two of them adults – was always going to be a bit of a squeeze in the tight confines of Hagrid's cabin. Especially when one of those adults was Hagrid himself. As such, James found himself squeezed onto the corner of Hagrid's bed alongside Tristan and Cat, with his legs bent awkwardly in an attempt to keep them clear of a moth-eaten blanket covering something that was intermittently moving and gurgling quite alarmingly.

'Don't feed that, whatever yeh do,' Hagrid warned.

James stared back, wide-eyed. That had been the _last_ thing on his mind.

'Especially not one of Hagrid's rock cakes,' Harry Potter said with a wink in James' direction. He was in the process of taking a sniff of the bucket of tea before him before committing to a tentative sip.

'Alright, alright. Enough out o' you,' Hagrid chuckled, idly scratching Sirius, his massive wolfhound, behind the ears. Between them, they took up over half the room alone. Harry had the only other seat, tucked in against the wall so that he could barely move.

Outside, a warm, golden light signalled the approaching end of the day. The windows were open, letting in a mild breeze to stir the hairs on James' arm. Songbirds of the evening serenaded the dying of the day all across the forest, and the gentle shushing of waves upon the lake shore provided a rhythm to their chaotic melody.

Inside the room, five bodies made the air hot and close. The assault on James' senses of the animal smells became heady and overpowering. He wished the door were open.

'Well, thank you all fer comin',' Hagrid eventually said, clapping his massive hands together loud enough to make the _thing_ at James' feet screech. He had to reach out and slap away Cat's curious hand as she made to uncover it. 'Firs' things firs', if anybody asks, I've got the lot o' yeh in detention.

'James, that shouldn't be hard; yeh've got detention through until You-Know-Who rises again. Tristan, I told the teachers I caught yeh sneaking into a holdin' pen to ride the Thestrals.'

' _Wicked.'_

'Ooh!' Cat exclaimed with glee, bouncing up and down on the bed next to James. 'What did _I_ do?'

Considering Cat was one of the best and most diligent Care of Magical Creatures students in their year, James considered it unlikely that she could ever do _anything_ worthy of detention under Hagrid's tutelage.

'I er…' Hagrid rubbed his neck a little sheepishly, and his beetle black eyes flicked off to stare out the window for a moment. 'I told 'em I caught you lickin' me Billywigs.'

'You _what?'_ Tristan howled, his eyes popping out of his head.

Harry, who had just taken a mouthful of tea, broke down into a violent coughing fit. He slapped the table as his eyes watered, and tea trickled from his nose.

' _Billywigs,_ ' Hagrid gestured furiously. A cage marked as such hung upside down in the far corner of the room. A dozen or so of the bright blue creatures buzzed about in confusion, similarly oriented. A right-way-up sticker slapped onto the base read _Freshly Imported from Australia._

Cat's face lit up with excitement, and she leaned forward eagerly. 'Ooh, may I?

'No! Yeh ruddy-well may not. Anyway, stick to the story, an' we'll be just fine. Nobody needs ter know why we're all here.'

'And why _are_ we here,' Tristan asked. He was foolish enough to take a nibble from the corner of one of Hagrid's lemon tarts. James failed to supress a laugh as Tristan's eyes watered and his face puckered in response to the teeth-shattering sourness.

'I assume James has told you the basics,' Harry interjected, pushing himself upright from his seated position.

'We're saving the Headmistress from the vampires?' Cat asked around a mouthful. She was on her third lemon slice, and not looking like stopping any time soon.

'Er, in a roundabout way,' Harry said. 'It's the view of Headmistress Renshaw, and that of her niece, Professor Sayre-'

'Ugh,' James groaned obnoxiously. Harry shot him a stern glare.

'That the French are going to try and pin the killing of their Abraxan winged horse on her. It's a charge that happens to carry years of imprisonment. Those horses are afforded a Protected Being status whilst travelling outside of France. Apparently its death was akin to the death of a French Diplomat-'

'Most French Diplomats I know look like horses anyway,' Tristan cut in.

Harry rolled his eyes and sighed heavily. 'I'm certain _we_ weren't this big of a nuisance at this age.'

Hagrid hastened to take a sip of his tea, and said not a single word.

'As I was saying,' Harry continued. 'The charge is a serious one. It's completely unfounded, and very likely false, but that won't stand to matter if the Headmistress of Beauxbatons Academy has her way. She and Renshaw have a chequered history, and it appears she is hell-bent on putting her behind bars. Our Ministry isn't helping in the slightest, so it's up to us to try and find out what _really_ happened.'

Outside, an owl gave a baleful cry that cut through the chatter of the songbirds. A moment of hush trailed in its wake. The day was soon to be over. It promised to be a mild night.

'And what _that_ means,' Hagrid took up the explanation. 'Is headin' into yon forest, tracking down whatever did this, catchin' it, killin' it, whatever it takes ter drag it's sorry arse before the French Ministry and give them no choice but to set Renshaw free.'

This time it was James' turn to breathe an awe-stricken, ' _Wicked.'_

'Blimey, but I'll be glad ter see her back. Haven't had a decent night's sleep in weeks.'

Harry and Hagrid opened the door and led the group outside. James, the last to leave, had to grab Cat around the waist and physically yank her away from where she'd been poking her tongue through the bars of the Billywig cage. She pouted most spectacularly, but James wasn't having a bar of it.

'Merlin, Kattala,' Harry exclaimed, as she sulked her way down the steps and disentangled from James' clutches. 'I remember when you were as small as a baby Kneazle. Now you're taller than me!'

'It's the crystallized Erumpent ginger,' she told him, brightening up instantly. 'Mummy says it gives for explosive growth spurts.'

'Aye,' Harry nodded gravely. 'Well there's no doubt you are your mother's daughter.'

'Alright, listen up,' Hagrid called to the group. He was adjusting the crank on his gigantic crossbow. Sirius, sensing the change in mood, dropped all of his playful airs in an instant. His hackles rose and he prowled around the group, snarling at everything that moved or came too near. 'This is serious now, no messing about. The Forest is a dangerous place. Especially in the evenin'. So pay attention.'

The three children nodded. James watched Harry, standing a little way off, facing out at the great wooded expanse. It had not been far from this spot that his father had entered the forest, expecting to die to save the people of Hogwarts – the entire wizarding _world_ – from Lord Voldemort. The gravity of that decision, and the selflessness it took to choose it was something that still beggared James' comprehension. As it always did when he thought of his father's accomplishments, James' admiration shone hotter and stronger than ever.

'Nothing in there is safe. Not even the ones who smile and act nice to see you. Don't trust anythin' that talks. Don't touch anythin' that moves. Or anythin' that doesn't, fer that matter. Don't lose sight o' yer group, don't fire on anythin' you don't want ter fire back, an' lastly. Most importantly don't ever, _ever_ stray off the path. Am I clear?'

The three students all nodded. The joking air and comfort between old friends had slid away now. Gone behind the craggy mountaintops with the last of the sunlight. The new tension that bound them was stretched tight, poised with portent of the sinister unknown. The uncertainty hid great terrors within its shadowy depths. Most were mere conjurations of the mind. And for each of the five gathered that day, they were all unique. But that didn't make them any less real.

And there the forest yawned, shadowy and foreboding before them. This late in the day, sunlight didn't penetrate more than a few feet into the rows of trunks standing sentinel like rank and file of a waiting army. The ground was devoid of light and of life. Twisted, gnarled roots claimed it as their territory, eager to foul a footstep or hide even the most clear-cut of pathways. As he studied it, there was only one question left that bothered James.

'Why me?' he asked the gathering. 'Why us?'

'Come.' Harry told him. 'Walk with us, and you'll see.'

James nodded as Harry and Hagrid set out purposefully into the waiting embrace of darkness. He got the feeling Harry's trip to watch he and Al's Quidditch match hadn't _entirely_ been one of pleasure.

Inside the forest was like entering a different world. The bright sounds and golden light of the fading day were blanketed instantly. There was only an oppressive hush left in their place. All the more evident for the abrupt juxtaposition with the vibrant life outside. A soft susurrus high in the trees whispered behind their backs, and the towering figures of fir and pine left James with the constant feeling that something was looking over his shoulder. An unsettling itch he couldn't scratch manifested on the back of his neck. And soon he, too, felt his hackles raising in discomfort.

There was little talk as the group made their way along the meandering path. The darkness soon forced them to light their wands. Hagrid carried a burning torch, his crossbow slung across his back. Even the crack and spittle of that small flame felt intrusive and outlandish in the vast, open silence of the Forbidden Forest.

In the darkness, the hard-packed earth and serpentine roots hid all manner of uneven terrain. It was slow going; fraught with stumbles and curses, and the occasional dropped wand. As James helped Cat to her feet after one such incident, she kept a hold of his hand. The pair of them moved forward in silence, wands out, scanning the darkness around them. Though for what, they did not know.

Soon a new sound began to grow in James' ears. The gentle lapping and sighing of waves upon the stony shore of the Black Lake. Little rises and gullies in their track spoke to ephemeral streams, and the ground became damp and muddy underfoot, in places. James had to tug a boot free where he sank up to his knee in one such trap.

James felt himself grow more and more on edge as they continued. There was a sort of animal sense within him that he couldn't control. It rose up, and he could feel it hissing and spitting inside. A primal response to something about this area on an unknown level triggered his senses to fight. Though there was not a single enemy in sight.

It wasn't until Hagrid pushed through to a small clearing near the lake shore that James understood the feeling. The group halted in the small, open area. Cat dropped James' hand, both of her own clapped to her mouth. Tristan swore under his breath in a way that grabbed even Harry's attention. James ran a hand through his hair. In dismay, surprise, or horror, he did not quite know.

A rocky ledge before them jutted up abruptly from the soft, loamy earth. It reached an eager hand out over the rippling waves on the lake's inky surface. At its peak it bore a flattened platform of living rock, about six paces across and ten long. James knew it with dread familiarity. It was where they had fought the Altanteans at the end of second year. Where he – and Renshaw – had forced them back into the horrible half-world of nightmares from whence they came. Where Tristan, Cat and the others had fought them face to terrifying face. He saw the appalling realisation in his friends' eyes.

'So this,' James said, 'is why it had to be us.'

'Aye,' Harry told him, placing a hand on his eldest son's shoulder.

'So, the Atlanteans are back?' Tristan asked. His own hands were balled into fists. His knuckles shone white in their collective wandlight.

'They can't be,' James shook his head. 'Else there would be ice everywhere. We'd know about it.'

'Come an' look at this,' Hagrid gestured by way of response, making his way up onto the makeshift stone dais.

James hesitated, but eventually followed. Scenes from that night flashed through his mind, in mocking rhythm with his footsteps. More than the images, the recurring fear of his almost-failure chilled him to the core. By the time he reached the top, he was breathing harder than he had any right to be.

'What do yer make o' this,' Hagrid gestured, lowering his torch to illuminate the grisly scene before them.

Cat gasped. Tristan swore – again, impressively. James leaned over the side of the rock and spat his distaste into the waves below.

A pile of bones as high as his own waist was gathered in a small depression in the rock. They were in varying stages of decay. Some still had tattered strips of rotting flesh attached. One leaked a small trickle of blood into the congealed, blackened pool at their base. The bones varied in size from smaller than James' palm, to longer than his leg. In shapes and sizes both familiar and unfamiliar. All were snapped and jagged and criss-crossed with marks left by razor-sharp fangs.

Something out there was killing its way through the Forest's food chain. And bringing the remains back to this one spot.

'It looks like some kind of a shrine,' Cat mused. The lower half of her face was buried in the sleeve of her jumper.

'Aye,' Hagrid nodded. 'That's what we thought when I found it a few weeks back.'

Harry turned to face the kids. 'That night you were out here, did you see anything else with these Atlanteans? Any animals, or monsters that looked unfamiliar?'

All three shook their heads to the negative. 'Do you think they are somehow related?' James asked.

'I don't know. But it seems odd that whatever is out there should be so fixated with this very spot.'

'Perhaps there is some residual magic left behind from their presence here?' Cat asked, her voice still muffled by her sleeve. 'Mummy says her work shows that magical creatures can leave an imprint, or create a ripple in the Magical Flux. Perhaps the Atlanteans left behind something like that?'

James didn't understand a word Cat had said. Harry looked thoughtful.

'It's like a cat,' Tristan finally spoke. 'Or some kind of pet, bringing kills to its master. Whatever it is, I'd bet my family farm that the two are somehow linked. Maybe something else snuck through when the Atlanteans breached that night, something we weren't aware of at the time. We were all a _little_ preoccupied, after all.'

'An' that's an Abraxan bone right there,' Hagrid pointed with the torch. 'See the one with the silver filigree? 'S a bit scuffed up now, but I'd know it if I ever saw it.'

It sat right at the base of the pile.

'Well can we show them that?' James asked, excitedly.

But Harry shook his head. 'Not enough. We need to find what did it. Match the fangs to the marks on the bone. Something they can't possibly deny or wriggle out of.'

'Well let's do it,' Tristan stated, rolling up his sleeves. 'These bastards got the better of me the first time around. That's not going to happen again.'

'That's the spirit!' Hagrid boomed, hefting his crossbow single-handedly. 'C'mere, and take a look at this.'

He showed them two tracks leading out of the clearing below. One was a trail of churned earth and blackened blood, the remnants of something having been dragged to the makeshift shrine. Evidence of a struggle was present in the scuffed bark and gouges dug deep into the forest floor. The prey must have been at least the size of James himself.

The second path bore no signs of struggle, but a single, taloned footprint was preserved in the soft mud around them. James' eyes bulged upon seeing it – it was thrice the size of his own booted feet. The inch-long claws that tipped each of the three toes cut deep into the soft dirt. Tiny pools of water stood within them, like the blood of the forest itself.

'We'll split up,' Hagrid explained. 'Tristan, James says you're half decent at trackin', so you'll go with him an' Harry. Miss Lovegood, you'll be with me an' Sirius. If that's alright, o' course.'

'Ooh!' Cat squealed. 'Adventure!' she bent down to pat Sirius excitedly, and James squirmed as she let him lick her face.

'We'll take the blood,' James said, gesturing where the path led north, adjacent to the shore of the lake.

'Alright, we'll take the print.'

The group split off into their designated parties. There was a moment of hesitation before they departed. A breath, waiting to be filled by somebody sane enough to tell them to turn back. Or somebody sufficiently sensible to voice one of the thousands of worries and doubts that cast deeper shadows over their movements than the tall trees of the forest. None spoke up to fill that void.

'One hour left of sunset.' Hagrid said gruffly. 'Then we'll have night proper. We turn back then. Discover anything, send up golden sparks. You need help, send red.'

All five nodded, and on an unspoken signal, they set out. Despite the close company, James felt more isolated than ever.

'How will we know night proper?' Tristan asked. 'It's already dark as a Slytherin's humour in here.'

'Last of the sun will drop below the horizon,' Harry told him. 'Won't make much of a difference to what we see. But I don't want to be hanging around to find out what is going to see _us.'_

The three of them pushed forward together. Tristan ranged up ahead, searching for the path as he went. The first thing he had them do was extinguish their lights.

'Ruin your night vision,' he said. 'And makes us a target for anything out there watching.'

It made sense, but it also slowed their pace to little more than a crawl. Tristan had to scratch and clamber and brush and peer at the blanket of pine needles ahead of them constantly to ensure they stayed on the right path. The further they went, the more the blood became carpeted by falling leaves and needles. As if the Forest itself was working to conceal her secrets from these intruders.

As James' eyes adjusted to the gloom, he watched the way his father prowled ahead with his wand lowered. His head swung slowly left to right, scanning their surroundings. At any hint of a noise or scuff around them, he'd pause, crouched and poised. His wand levelled and his breathing steady.

James tried to emulate it, to be just like his father. Right down to the steady, stalking gait. Predatory, even though they were the real prey here. He mirrored his father's movements, so that when Harry looked right, James would look left. So that between them, they'd have all approaches covered. Every so often James would cast a glance back over their shoulders. Each time he did, the closeness of the shadows, and the lack of any evidence of a path back to the clearing sent a shiver down his spine.

The darkness of the forest was oppressive. It forced the world to shrink to the tiny grey and black sphere that their eyes could make out. It loomed in James' periphery, ominous and filled with grisly portent. Shapes and shadows seethed with malevolence, so that his half-vision made nightmares out of anything that moved.

When the path of the beast crossed off the track to their right, Harry grabbed Tristan by the forearm and silently shook his head. Tristan nodded. He scouted up ahead, and was lost from vision for a nervous few moments, before reappearing, grey-faced and nodding, signalling forwards.

They slowly crept away from the whispering sounds of the lake shore, and the silence pressed in around them, loud and obvious in James' ears. Every footstep or breath was loud and grating. That they were foreigners, intruders, into this hushed, private world had never been more clear. Certainly, their presence must have been noted by anything within miles of their position. He'd never felt so exposed.

Soon, the barest hint of light began to spread. In their dark-accustomed state, it was as if the midday sun were shining down on them. The dusky pallor of the sentinel trunks began to lighten. The darkness resolved itself into coherent shapes, and the three made their cautious way out towards a clearing in the trees.

James wasn't alone in gasping, as the last gasp of daylight revealed that the landscape disappeared before their eyes. They stood atop a great ravine, hundreds of metres high, carved into the flesh of the earth on which they stood. A few tatters of mist wove their way between the murky treetops beneath them. From their dizzying height, they were little more than a greenish smudge that marred the bottom of this great, shadowed wound in the landscape. Across from them, the far side was so distant that James could barely make out individual trees and scrub clinging on to the cliff-face.

Far, far below, a meandering stream was aflame with the final gasp of the day's light. It wove its way along the valley floor, shouldered by towering, verdant watchmen that guided its path away and beyond the stretch of James' vision. One more mystery of the Forest, hidden by the gathering night.

Their sporadic trail of blood led to the edge of the cliff and abruptly ended. Scuff marks and scratches in the naked rock indicated a battle had taken place.

To their right, a meagre trickle of water ran down and over the edge. It's pitiful flow splashed fruitlessly against the rocks below. James frowned as he peered over the precipice. A moss-covered path was carved into the rock. It was a narrow, winding switchback, too tight to traverse in more than single file. Treacherous and slicked by the would-be waterfall, it seemed the only way to descend to the valley.

As James' attention was ensnared by the shadowy depths of the valley floor, he felt his father stiffen next to him. A moment later, he heard it, too. Snapping twigs and thumping footfalls. A low rumbling from the ground on which they stood. Something was coming their way.

The three of them backed up against the cliff face with wands lowered. Descending the path was out of the question. In this light, it would be nigh on suicide. Harry took point of their defensive formation instead, lowering his wand and taking a step forward, clearly trying to shelter the two boys. Tristan and James flanked him, feet steady, and wands drawn. The precipice at their backs made James' spine tingle as the newcomers approached.

Bursting from the trees before them, in a line that stretched as far as James could see in the fading, were a horde of centaurs, bare chests dusted now with the last rays of sunlight. They shouted and cried in terrifying, overlapping ululations that were clearly battle-cries. Dozens of bows were nocked and drawn, levelled at the three of them together. Harry drew up a defensive shield, but at a bark from their commander, not a single arrow was fired.

Weapons were lowered, and a rumble of dozens of hooves stamping in agitation shook the ground beneath James' boots.

'Harry Potter,' called one, clearly their leader. 'I find myself unsurprised that you have returned. The stars foretold it.'

'Er, forgive me,' Harry said, dropping the shield and taking a step forward. 'I do not recognize your face.'

'My name is Conall, son of Firenze. This is my Herd. I interpret the stars for them, and so they follow my word. I was but a foal, the last time you were among us.'

'It is an honour to meet you, Conall. I thought highly of your father, in his time.'

'There are those among us who wish you harm, for using us like animals to rid you of the frog-woman. But I remember that it was you who slew Herd-breaker, the one you fear to name. That it was your blood which fell on this soil, given to protect us. And it is by this debt that I grant you free passage. I see you have brought a foal of your own, which I will allow. And an outsider, which I will not.'

The mood turned, on an edge sharper than the cliff-face behind them. James saw Harry's grip tighten on his wand. His feet shifted to a wider, fighting stance. Sensing danger, James followed suit.

'He's with us, Conall. You can't have him.'

'We tolerate the intrusion of Hagrid, and now yourself, into our realm. I have told him repeatedly; no others. Human meddling does us more harm than good, and is always to the benefit of wizardkind. A Wizard's actions care not for the fate of the Herd.'

Conall moved forward, holding out his hand, as if Tristan would willingly step up and take it. The wicked carved bow slung over his back was notched and scarred, from frequent use. Muscles rippled all across his bare chest and down over his jet-black flanks. One kick from those powerful hooves would spell the end of any of them.

To his shock, Tristan stepped out from behind Harry's protective stance and approached Conall, his wand held unthreateningly at his side. His free hand was fishing around in his pocket. When he came to a stop, he stood before the mighty centaur, reaching no higher than his chest. But his shoulders were set confidently.

They stared each other down for a long moment. Something about Tristan's stance kept all of the spectators frozen in place, human and centaur alike. Finally, he tossed something towards Conall that caught the fading sunlight high in the air, and Conall caught it, studied it intently.

'How did you get this?' he hissed at Tristan. His leathery face was contorted with rage.

'The same way anybody does,' Tristan said, smugly. 'By earning it.'

'The gift of a Centaur's arrowhead signifies a life-debt, and a friendship bound by the stars themselves. I know of no member of the Herd who has given such to a student.'

'Not your Herd. My family owns land,' Tristan explained. 'North of here. Much of it is wooded, kept as a reserve for magical creatures. A young foal became lost, and was injured by a Muggle hunter nearby. I found it, rescued it, and returned it to its mother. She gave it to me as a sign of gratitude. Promised me I'd be safe, so long as there were Centaurs around to protect me.'

This time it was Tristan's turn to hold out his hand. Conall placed the flint arrowhead back. His face played host to a range of conflicting emotions. Tristan walked back to stand next to James and Harry. He pointedly tucked his wand into the back of his trousers.

'Now that that's sorted…' Harry began. 'I guess we'll be on our way.'

'Only so long as that way is out of the Forest, Harry Potter. Night proper arrives. Not even the protection of the arrowhead will keep you safe.'

'We're hunting some creatures. We don't know what they are, only that they've been killing. Almost anything in sight. Do you know-?'

All up and down the line, Centaurs reared in anger. They raised bows and fists above their heads, and a fresh round of war-cries echoed throughout the valley.

'You seek Death himself, Harry Potter, if what you speak is true. For that is all that you shall find, down that path.'

'We _need_ to find out what it is. We need-'

'Why is it that a wizard's "need" is always paid for in Centaur blood? You will get no help from us, Harry Potter, save for this: tonight, as Night Proper unfolds its dusky petals, a New Moon shall rule the sky. Without supervision, Mars, in all her blood-red glory shall sink deep into the heart of Orion, the Protector. Even a human, such as yourself, should be able to see the portent in such an omen, Harry Potter. Stay away, if you value your life.'

As Conall finished speaking, the last flare of sunlight illuminated the valley, and the day finally ended. The smoky grey haze that it left behind was filled with nervously shifting Centaurs.

'Night Proper!' Conall barked. 'Flee, Harry Potter!' And the herd wheeled and vanished into the trees, the sound of their hooves quickly swallowed up by the towering pines.

As he predicted, no moon was visible in the star-filled sky above their heads.

'Well,' Harry ventured. 'I guess we ought-'

He was cut off, as a scream unlike anything James had ever heard cleaved the still night like an axe. All three clapped hands over ears in pain. James felt his eyes watering with it, his heart racing and cold sweat pouring forth in a chilling, bone-freezing fear.

As if in answer, a shower of golden sparks shot high into the sky above the treetops ahead of them. The delayed _crack_ spoke to the distance between them and the others.

The three shared a look. They got as far as taking a collective half-step forwards before a second cry responded, this time much, much closer. It battered them like a physical thing, staggering all three to their knees. James might have cried out himself, he didn't know for sure. The pain of the beast's cry was all that he knew, as it coursed through his head, his whole body like poison hot and burning through his veins.

It could have been a second or a minute later that it ended, none of them knew. But unspoken, all three took to their feet and tore off into the forest in the direction of the sparks. If they fired them again and these _things_ saw them… James' heart was hammering up in his throat. All three had their wands lit – night vision be damned. They tripped and stumbled and staggered over root and vine and fallen bough. They splashed through puddles and barrelled down paths, uncaring what might have seen or heard their passing. The fear that the cry had engendered took over every other sense.

It wasn't until they rounded a corner, and all three bounced off of Hagrid's broad, solid chest, that they managed to have a coherent thought between them.

'Bloody hell,' Harry panted, in response to Hagrid's questioning look. 'I've never seen or heard anything like that in my life.'

'Heard what?' Hagrid asked. 'We've not heard a damned thing.'

They had, however, found something else.

Much like the opening near the cliff's edge, their narrow bend in the track had been the scene of a fight. Blood decorated the trees around them, strips of bark were torn free, and branches were snapped and tattered. Deep, raking claw marks scarred the forest floor. And in one hand, Cat held a feather.

'Merlin's beard,' Harry exclaimed. 'That's bigger even than something of Buckbeak's.'

James took the feather from Cat, who'd clearly fallen over at some point. One side of her face, her jumper and the ends of her long, silvery hair were caked in thick, cloying mud. She didn't seem to mind in the slightest.

He turned it over in his hand. It was dark, thick, and coated with a sheen of foul-smelling oil.

'These things can _fly?'_ he asked nobody in particular.

Sure enough, when the group looked up, a series of bent branches, and a glimpse of the sky above showed where the thing had descended from. James wasn't the only one who gave an involuntary shudder in response.

'I think it's time we got out o' here,' Hagrid growled, his eyes on the sky above.

They didn't need telling twice. And so they left the Forest, far more terrified, and far less certain of what they faced than they had been when they entered.


	9. Boom

The Gryffindor common room was dark, despite the midday sun blazing outside the Obfuscated windows. Whoever had cast the Charm had done an imperfect job, and needles of light skewered the room at haphazard angles.

Three hooded figures ghosted through the darkness. Their faces were hidden. Their movements were hasty, yet deliberate. Charged with a poised sort of nervousness that manifested most subtly, in jerking motions, shaking fingers, and short, sharp breaths. The mood was tense and tentative. Stretched thin and delicate as a taut spider's web between the three of them.

And it snapped with all the delicacy of a Weasley firework when one of the three banged an elbow upon jutting bedpost and swore out loud.

The package in his hands slipped free from the shock in a mocking sort of slow-motion fall.

'Don't drop that!'

'Too late.'

' _Fuck!'_

The second of the three dove to the ground. An act more instinct than true thought. When his fingers slipped deftly beneath it, the sigh of relief deflated all three in sudden enervation. The nervous energy dissipated into the mottled darkness like a fading static electricity.

'Thank Merlin for that,' said the first – he who had dropped it.

'Knew you being a Chaser would come in handy,' said the third to the second, who was now pushing himself softly to his feet. The delicate glass felt so fine that even the simple pressure of his fingers would bruise it.

'Knew you being insane would be the death of me eventually,' he shot back, pushing back his hood and running a hand through hair now slicked with sudden sweat.

James Potter glared through the murky darkness at the shadowed hood that still hid the face of Fred Weasley.

'Well, if Clip hadn't nearly _dropped_ it…'

'Well if _you_ hadn't insisted on me wearing this thrice-damned cloak! I swear it's at least thirty-seven sizes too big!' Clip was still rubbing his elbow gingerly, and flexing his fingers.

'You have been inducted into the Brotherhood,' Fred solemnly replied. 'The uniform is our identity. It is who we are.'

A fleeting glimmer was the whites of Clip's eyes flashing as he rolled them dramatically. 'Well, I'd like to see you serve the _Brotherhood_ while wearing a tent. Say, what's in that, anyway?'

'Err… let's just say that if you'd dropped it, Madam Petheridge would have had to be a puzzle master to put the three of us back together.'

James' eyebrows rose. He tried to share a look with Clip through the gloom, but he thought he might have been looking aghast at the bedpost, instead.

'And you're going to put that in Lynch's _bed?'_

' _Relax._ I'm going to tweak it. Tune it down a bit. And I was exaggerating.'

James felt a little less anxious as he passed the glassy orb over to Fred.

'Mostly.'

'And we're _certain_ that this is safe?' Clip asked, a hint of nerves undercutting his hushed whisper.

'Of course not! But in the same way that I can't be _certain_ that you'll beat me at Wizard's chess every time, or that Cassie will make that disturbing face when she sniffs a new book. But that doesn't mean it isn't going to happen. Without fail. Mostly'

Clip looked to James for support, but he only shrugged. 'I've found three of Lynch's socks in my bed this week. You said yourself you saw Odin Mills torching those Muggle posters you like. And you don't even want to _know_ what Quentin Knight used Fred's towel for the other day. We have to draw the line somewhere, Clip. They think they run the show in here. We're taking back our dormitory. It ends tonight.'

'Alright,' Clip ceded, holding up his hands defensively. 'I'm not going to call it _trust,_ per se. But I am strongly of the opinion that I have the least experience at being completely bloody insane, and so I shall bow to your collective expertise in the field.'

'That's the spirit,' Fred grinned. 'Now back to your stations. Lunch time will be over soon. We might be missed.'

Clip nodded and pulled up his giant hood. His face was instantly lost in the twisting blackness within. He padded across to his lookout station near the door, wand at the ready.

James, for his part, returned to a constant array of Deodorising and Air-Freshening charms to keep the eye-watering smell of acid and all manner of volatile things under control.

'Pass me the De-Centralizer,' Fred muttered, his eyes and wand focused on the object before him.

'The _what?'_

'Long sticky thing. Loop at the end. Gives you a shock when you grab it.'

'Lovely.'

James dove in to Fred's infamous satchel bag. He peered dubiously into the unfathomable depths. Somehow it was an even darker shade of darkness in the already shadowy room. He was reasonably certain that something _in there_ roared at him.

'Quick! Close it before she gets out.'

James did as he was told, with vigour.

When the clock struck one, and the boys hurried down through the Gryffindor common room, James was mostly just relieved he was able to do so in one piece. That ought to show Lynch and his cronies for trying to take over the dormitory like they were the only ones living in it.

The sun still shone high and bright that evening, after James had finished his classes. Seeking to take advantage of the opportunity, he shouldered his broom and set off down to the Quidditch Pitch. It was one of the few free evenings he had, not taken up by official practises or his run of never-ending detentions. He sought some time alone to clear his head, shake off the mountain of homework he'd been doled out from Professor Plye in Transfiguration, and most importantly, to think through what they'd seen – and heard – in the forest.

Naturally, he'd filled in Fred and Clip the moment he'd returned, despite Hagrid's insistence that he keep it a secret. Neither of them was about to turn him in to the Ministry, or whoever else was watching them. They both had no idea of any magical creatures that caused such fear from merely the sound of their cry. Especially none that could fly. Neither Hagrid, nor even Cat, with all of her fantastical imaginations, could explain what they might have found. Nor Harry Potter, in all his years of magical exploration and battles against any manner of dark and dangerous creatures.

But then, the Atlanteans had supposedly been little more than a Merfolk myth.

He was pulled forth from his reverie by the sudden realisation that he was no longer alone. A solitary figure stood before him, leaning up against one of the imposing stone pillars that flanked the entrance to the Quidditch pitch. She was resting coolly against the massive granite slabs, and studying one hand of green painted nails. The very picture of casual indifference.

'Took your time. You sure do know how to dawdle, James.'

She wore her hair long and loose, and it fell around her shoulders in artful disarray. In the warm light of the late afternoon, James wasn't sure how he'd ever manage to miss that she'd changed it. Dark, smoky shades were shot through her usual faded blonde, which bathed in the light of the setting sun.

'How did you know I'd be here?' James asked Odette, stepping forward to greet her with a hug and a quick kiss on the cheek. Even now, he felt a little uncomfortable with the action, and had to shoot a furtive glance around to ensure nobody was looking.

'Well, let's see,' she replied, mock-pensively. 'James has one night of the week free from study, training, or his hundred-and-one detentions. He'd like to relax and unwind. So, where does he go? Not to call upon his breathtakingly charming girlfriend, no-o. It's off to the Quidditch pitch. Again.'

She said it all with a smile on her face that lit up her pale eyes, and transformed her usually-frosty demeanour into something warm and open and all the more special because it was reserved only for him.

'You know me so well, already,' James said, smiling back. And then hastily added. 'Sorry, by the way.'

'Don't apologise, James, it's unbecoming. And besides, I knew what I was signing up for.'

'Oh yeah? And what was that, exactly?'

'A clueless Gryffindor who is only happy if his life's in danger, or he's riding a broomstick. Completely unaware that there's more to life than bad guys and Quidditch.' Odette bit her tongue in a cheeky smile. Her eyes sparkled.

'Well, thank Merlin that the beguiling socialite queen, Mistress of Drama and Scandal and doer-of-deeds-not-uttered-in-polite-conversation is here to lead me astray.'

'So flattering. I might just get a tiara with that stamped upon it. Do you think I could pull it off?'

James had never met anybody so predisposed to such attire.

'I think you could pull off a sack of old potatoes, in the right light.'

Odette's smile took on a different shade of playful, and she leaned in towards James to whisper directly into his ear in a way that sent shivers down his spine and all manner of wild thoughts racing through his mind.

' _Only_ a sack of potatoes?'

Her laughter was bright and musical to James' ears as she pulled away, taking his hand and leading him into the stadium.

When she took him inside the nearest stand instead of out onto the pitch, James shot her a questioning look.

'It's Ravenclaw's day to practice,' she told him.

'Oh, shoot. I'd-'

'Forgot? I know.'

'We'd better leave, then. They'll be starting soon. They won't want us around. What if we accidentally saw some of their moves?'

'Oh, James. You sweet, naïve boy. You are _such_ a Gryffindor.'

'Why does everyone always say that like it's a bad thing?'

Odette stopped to face him, cupping one cheek and gazing into his eyes with what could only be described as pity.

'James, you have so much to learn. Starting with the playbook for Ravenclaw's upcoming match against us.'

Odette gestured towards the stairwell leading up to the highest section of the stands. She held out an arm for James to loop through his own.

'No way! That's cheating.'

'James, my oblivious flower petal, if there's any tradition as old as Quidditch at this school, it is spying on opposing Quidditch teams. _Everybody_ does it. Ava Adams will be up there somewhere, taking notes for Hufflepuff as we speak. The only ones who don't are the poor, noble Gryffindors. Too clueless and honourable to consider such sacrilege.'

'I- we…' James struggled to form words.

Odette placed one foot on the bottom step, her hand still held out for James. Despite reservations aplenty marching through his mind one after the other, he reached out and took it. Odette's knowing, private smile won him over. And the way she'd whispered in his ear still had his mind spinning off to the realms of scandalous possibility.

'Odette Mansfield,' he announced. 'I do believe you'll be my ruin.'

'Oh, James,' she purred. 'You don't even know the half of it.'

Much later that evening saw James fast asleep at a table in a quiet corner of the library, still burdened by the sins of what he and Odette had done in the stands whilst Ravenclaw practiced. Both moral and those more… _physical_ in nature.

He was stirred to life the moment his solitude was taken from him. It took his eyes a moment to focus on the one who sat down opposite.

'I'm glad to see you're finally beginning to take your studies seriously, James.'

'Uh, wha-?' he looked up and squinted at the newcomer. A small trail of drool had caused a sheet of parchment to stick to one side of his face.

Cassandra Featherstone gave a most deflated sigh, and slumped down in to the chair opposite. 'I should have known.'

'What brings you here, stranger? You've been avoiding us, lately.' James unstuck the parchment and shuffled a few of the papers around before him to look busy, with no real intention of working on them. He was well past the stage of plotting anything to do with Jupiter's moons, or Saturn's orbit at this stage of the night.

Cassie set about removing three very large books from the very small leather satchel bag that she carried. The third one kicked up a small puff of dust as it _thumped_ down onto the table. Cassie had almost disappeared behind the stack of them.

'I've been doing no such thing, James. I've just been… busy.'

The answer didn't satisfy him in the least. He scooted forward, shoving two of her books aside and poking his head across the table between them. 'And how is Clip?'

She promptly jammed the books back together, squishing James' ears quite painfully in the process.

'I told you at the time, and I will tell you again: our attendance at the Ball together was simply a union of convenience. Nothing more.'

'A _union…_ sounds official,' James winked, still rubbing his ears.

'James Potter, if all you are going to do is offer immature comments on my social life, then please, I beg of you, leave me alone.'

There was no real heat in Cassie's words. Her shoulders were slumped forward and her eyes downcast. And if she was asking nicely…

'What's wrong, Cassie?' James asked earnestly.

'N-nothing.'

But James caught the moment of hesitation. And as he peered closer, he saw the glimmer of a tear in the corner of her eye, the moment before she spun away from him with a book in hand. She refused to look back as she searched for its place on the shelf. James heard her muffled sigh of frustration as she couldn't quite reach up to the spot where it fit.

Unspeaking, James pushed himself up and walked around the table to where she stood, still straining on tip-toes, pointedly ignoring his presence.

He reached out and, instead of taking the book from her, he slipped his hands under her arms and lifted her bodily up to the shelf, despite her exclamation of shock, and her subsequent protests.

Back on solid ground, she spun to face him, hands planted firmly on hips and a stern expression slapped over her still-watery eyes. James couldn't hide his own smile as she glared. Eventually, he saw it. The tiniest crack in her resolution – a slight quirk upwards on one corner of her mouth, and she had to look away once more.

'I am not amused, James Potter.' Her tone said otherwise.

'I swear I've seen first years taller than you.'

'You have _not!'_ she said, aghast.

James shrugged, and pointed to the table once more. 'Talk to me, Cassie.'

They sat down opposite one another at the table. James waited patiently as Cassie opened and closed her mouth a few times, fidgeted with a button on her blouse, and twiddled with the ribboned bookmark from one of her books. Finally, with a deep breath that swelled her diminutive chest, she spoke.

'I'm alone, James. She's gone.' There was no need to ask who _she_ was. 'When I started here, at Hogwarts, I didn't know a single person. I felt so scared and alone. Nobody wanted to sit next to her at the house table, after she was sorted. People were already whispering that she was a freak. That there was something wrong with her. But I thought that she just _looked_ how I _felt_. Isolated, lost. The smile she gave me when I slid aside for her is something I'll always remember.

'And when the other girls in our house would ignore us, or call us names behind our back, she'd tell me she could leave, if I wanted. That I didn't have to be friends with her. That she was bringing me down. But I never would.

'She was the one who convinced me, you know. To give you a second chance, after everything that happened in first year. She saw something in you. She always said that the two of you would do great things together. That the world was shaping up to build itself around you, and that was right, because your heart was pure. I didn't know what it meant; I still don't, but I believed her.

'And I always believed her. When she told me they'd stop talking about us soon. Or yes, I'd learn that spell, or pass that test. Every time I doubted myself, she was always there. And knew just what to say.

'But now she's gone. Gone without even a note or a goodbye. She's vanished, and I don't know where she's gone, or what she's doing, or if she's even safe. And now you and the others are running through the Forest doing Merlin-knows-what, and I'm here by myself, alone again. Only this time, she's not there to tell me it's going to be alright.'

Cassie exhaled as she finished talking. She lay her hands flat on the table. Her nails were short and jagged, chewed right down. A nervous habit of hers. A strand of her short, brown hair fell to hide her eyes, though she wasn't crying. James could hear the ache in her voice, and felt an idiot for not thinking about her sooner.

'Shoot, Cassie. I hadn't thought you'd have wanted to join. I'm sorry. Fred and Clip aren't coming with us. You could help them, if you wanted to be involved. Fred's said he'd provide us with some extra firepower next time we go. And Clip is researching magical creatures. I'm sure he could use an extra pair of eyes.'

Cassie gave a little hiccough – halfway between a sob and laughter. She looked up at him from behind her books and there was the barest light of mirth in her hazel eyes.

'James, you have _clearly_ not seen Clip Wallace engage in what he calls _research._ Books everywhere, no semblance of order, pages folded over. _Writing in margins!'_ Here Cassie had to pause to place hand to breast, in a picture of pure indignation. 'The boy utterly fails to comprehend the gravity of the sacred act of research and study. He is, dare I say it, a heretic.'

James reached across the table and took both of Cassie's tiny hands in his own. _There_ was the Cassie he'd been missing.

As he moved, though, he felt something hard press against his hip, something he kept stashed in the pocket of his jeans. _Of course._

'That's it!' James roared, thrusting all four of their hands high in the air, and pulling Cassie bodily form her chair in the process. 'Oops, sorry.'

He fished in his pocket and retrieved the amulet, placing it reverently on the table between them. Quiet since that evening outside Professor Meadows' office, he carried it everywhere nonetheless. It was his only, tenuous link to Rain. His only clue to bringing her back.

And Cassie was the perfect one to help him.

'May I?' she whispered, tentatively reaching out towards the locket. The sapphire glowed a deep and ominous blue between them. The light in the stone seemed bottomless.

James nodded his acquiescence.

'This is it,' Cassie breathed. 'Her amulet. She always had this. _Always._ Sometimes, she'd wake up screaming in the night, trying to tear it free. I'd have to hold her down and keep it on, whispering to her. It was the one time when _I_ got to tell _her_ that everything was going to be alright.

'James, she _needs_ this. Without this, she'll get sick again. Without this, she might die.'

'I know. Which is what makes me think she hasn't just moved away for her health, or transferred schools. Or whatever they're trying to tell us. It's what makes me think something's happened to her. And I have the feeling that sometimes, it's trying to tell me something. Like it might be our only clue to getting her back.'

Cassie pushed herself upright suddenly, her gaze hot and bright and determined, fixing on James' own with a fire that hadn't existed a half hour ago.

'Then we're going to use it to get her back. Even if it kills us, James, we're going to save Rain.'

James stood as well, and nodded. He slipped the chain of the locket over his head, and tucked it beneath his chest. The crystal was cool and hard and heavy against his breastbone. He would wear it now, as a symbol of his renewed commitment. He would wear it until the day came when he could give it back to her in person. Relief and excitement washed over him. Finally, an opportunity to do something about getting her back.

Cassie decided she was far too excited to study, and chose instead to turn in for the night, as she told James she did some of her best thinking while staring at the ceiling above her bed.

'Walk up together?' she asked him, packing the last of many books back into her bag.

James checked his watch before answering, and held up one anticipatory finger.

 _Boom!_

A wall-shaking explosion sounded from high above them, rather suspiciously in the direction of the Gryffindor common room. A little rain of dust cascaded down from the roof overhead.

'Yes, let's.'

'Dare I ask?'

'I wouldn't if I were you, Cassandra. You wouldn't believe it if I told you.'


	10. Noted

In all of his years at Hogwarts, James had never quite been able to see eye to eye with the stern Potions professor, Elise Ellfrick. She had her favoured circle – the Cassies and the Clips and the Emry Sameers – the ones who possessed talent for the craft. But for James, he had only ever been able to elicit cool indifference toward himself, or occasionally, disgruntled irritation.

Perhaps it was the slew of "Acceptable" grades he used to scrape through her class, without ever really putting in a concerted effort. Perhaps it was his penchant for a very loose interpretation of the potion guidelines, commonly leading to interesting and often dangerous results when all was said and done.

Or, perhaps, it was the fact that in his very first lesson, he'd let a giant bouncing chicken filled with excrement loose in her classroom. It could also have been that.

And today's lesson was no different. He and Fred had been poked down the back of the class behind a low wall separating them from their peers, so that any damage done would be entirely to themselves. Cassie had complained at great length as they had dragged her – along with Clip and Cat down with them, so that their misery might at least have some company.

'Today, class, we will be brewing a Clarity Claret.' A few students to whom that meant something inhaled sharply. Professor Ellfrick scrutinised them with beady eyes, her lips pursed as if she'd just tasted something unpleasant. 'This is an OWL-grade potion, and one with devilishly tricky instruction and rather… effusive consequences should you get it wrong. I expect _all_ of you to give me your _full_ concentration.'

There was no mistaking it this time, as she had skewered James and Fred both with an ominous stare. Her sharp features and hard eyes promised consequences worse than an exploding potion, should they get it wrong. Caspar Helstrom and his group of Ravenclaws didn't even try to hide their derisive snickers. Fred offered them a hearty two-fingered salute for their troubles.

Apparently oblivious to the exchange, Professor Ellfrick ploughed on ahead. 'Because of the high degree of difficulty of the potion, I will be offering a reward of forty house points to whomever I decide has brewed the most satisfactory potion, and the chance to keep a small sample of their vial. The potion sharpens the mind and hones the senses acutely, far beyond the realms of natural thought. As such, it will be tested for, come exam time. But the winning student shall be able to take a single use of their potion for whatever _other_ purpose they so desire.'

A few around the room had sat up a little straighter at that. James and Fred shared a shrug. The chances of either of them winning it were slim to none. And James thought that might just be a good thing for the safety of Hogwarts – Fred's mind operating on a more advanced level would be something to scare even the boldest of Gryffindors.

The Professor turned around to write the instructions on the board, and the class erupted into a whispering frenzy.

'Think of all the things you could _do,'_ Cassie sighed. 'All the spells you could learn. The ancient texts you could decipher, Runes you could read…'

'I wonder if it's anything like licking the Billywigs,' Cat asked, the end of her stirring rod in her mouth.

As they were busying themselves setting up their cauldrons, and kindling the small fires that would provide heat beneath them, an unexpected – and, in Cassie's case, unwanted – visitor approached their table.

'Has Tristan told any of you where he's going to be after class today?' Chloe Swann asked innocently, bouncing on the balls of her feet, struggling to peak her diminutive frame over the low wall that was part-ostracising their little group. 'I've a pair of socks that belong to him, and I'd like to return them.'

'We'll do it,' Fred promptly offered, holding out his hand.

'Oh, I don't have them on me right now. And besides… I'd rather wanted to do it in person.'

'He said he was going to speak to Hagrid about an upcoming assignment,' James offered helpfully. 'I think they're borrowing some creatures from his farm.'

'Thanks James! You're the best.' And with that, she was gone, skipping happily back to where she was sitting.

'You bloody Puffskein,' Fred chided, the moment she was out of earshot.

'What? I was just being helpful.'

'Tristan told us _specifically,_ and at great length, that he was trying to _avoid_ Chloe Swann. Ever since they broke up she's been chasing him around like a rogue Bludger.'

'Oh. Well then.'

'Don't tell me you've lost _another_ friend, Potter,' came a sneering drawl from the front of the class.

Caspar Helstrom, and one of his cronies, Dannil Pyke had turned to leer back in their direction.

'What are you getting at?' Fred shot back. But it was fairly obvious, to James at least.

'I see your sickly little friend still hasn't re-joined your ranks.'

James reached out and lay a hand on Cassie's arm, where she held her textbook in a white-knuckled grip.

'What's your problem, Caspar? What did she ever do to you?'

'What's my problem? _You_ are my problem, Potter. You, and her, and every single one of your little friends who think that just because they are different, or famous, or special that the world revolves around them. That the rules that the rest of us have to live by, somehow don't _apply_ to you lot.

'All of us work three times as hard as you do. We study longer, we practice harder. I'm a better wizard than you'll ever be, Potter. But because _Harry Potter_ was your father, everything gets handed to you. And because that Rain girl is _mysterious_ and different, everyone treats her like she's made of glass. And so you both run around, doing things that would get better witches and wizards expelled, but somehow, it's all _just fine,_ because you are James _bloody_ Potter. It makes me sick. I'm glad she's gone; and I hope she never comes back.'

There was no way that Professor Ellfrick hadn't heard Caspar's rant. Half of the class had swivelled in their chairs to stare at the two boys, now facing off across the low wall that separated their tables. But, being one of the top students in the class apparently gave Caspar and his buddies immunity from the dressing-down James would have received, had the roles been reversed.

All of a sudden, James wanted very much to win that damned potion.

And so, as the lesson began, he paid precise care to every single detail of the instructions Professor Ellfrick had left up on the board.

He heated his water just until the point where it burned to the touch. He counted the seventeen daisy petals thrice before adding them, one at a time, to the solution. His essence of Red Myrrh was measured to the minutest of detail, and the rich carmine colour that blossomed in his cauldron as a response was exactly as the Professor had described.

He made the mistake of asking Cassie to help him with his stirring while he chopped up some leeches to add.

'James Sirius Potter, whilst I am absolutely thrilled that _for once_ you are approaching your education with the gravitas and sincerity it deserves, you cannot _seriously_ think for a minute that I would help you when _forty_ house points are on offer. I mean, I could… I could even stir it the wrong way, _on purpose.'_

'Cassie, you don't have a single sabotaging bone in your body. And you can't even watch me hold a stirring rod crooked without needing to fix it. I think your little head would explode before you purposefully made a potion wrong.'

To prove his point, James took a lackadaisical grip of his stirring rod, as if it would fall from his grasp at the barest contact. He could see Cassie's left eye twitching as she tried so very hard not to look his way.

When the Professor finally called an end to the lesson, the air was thick and hazy with dark, vaporous smoke tinged faintly purple. James' own potion was bubbling merrily away under his bright red flames, the thick, rich blood-like hue of the substance was exactly what they had been asked to provide.

His eyes tracked the Professor intently as she stalked between the tables, commenting on the colour, texture, and – occasionally – smell, of some of the potions.

'If I'd wanted a vat of grape juice, Rigby, I'd have sent for a house elf. Iona, be a dear and fetch me a spoon, or – better yet – a shovel. I think I'll need it to scrape any of that mess from your cauldron. Roundtree, it's a wonder any of us are still alive, the way that thing has been bubbling and fizzing all lesson. Vanish it now before we're all killed in an explosion of your stupidity.'

She stopped to admire Caspar's work. Likewise, Chloe Swann's effort. That praise made Cassie start grinding her teeth audibly. When she arrived at their table, James could practically feel the roll of her eyes she had prepared for their efforts.

Clip's concoction was somehow thinner than water. Fred's was a dark red-brown the texture of mud. Cat's was somehow, inexplicably, an electric blue. She was dipping in her stirring rod and taking a little sip from the end of it whenever the professor wasn't looking.

'Excellent work as always, Miss Featherstone. You are a credit to your house. For the life of me I cannot fathom why you suffer these rapscallions.'

She paused at James' desk, her eyebrows raised in grudging appreciation.

'I'll admit Potter, this appears surprisingly competent. Funny, how you've suddenly developed talent now that a tangible reward has been dangled in front of your eager little nose.'

She took a scoop of his, Cassie's, Chloe's and Caspar's potions and deliberated over the four up the front of the class for a tense few moments. Dannil Pyke used the time to shoot James a leer over his shoulder.

'I have decided the winner, by the narrowest of margins,' Professor Ellfrick announced to the rapt attention of the class. 'And it is… MIs Cassandra Featherstone, for her impeccable example.'

There was a scattering of applause around the room, and some very mixed emotions of James' part.

'Who was second?' he called out, not really expecting an answer.

'If you have to ask, Potter, you know it wasn't you.' Caspar snarled and threw his bag over his shoulder, leading his small group of friends from the room before the bell had even signalled the end of the lesson.

At least, he decided, he could put up with Cassie's smug superiority a lot easier than he could have had Caspar won the damned potion.

A night of the week where James had Quidditch practice and _no_ detention was a blessed occurrence indeed. He'd scrubbed the entire Transfiguration classroom clean with a toothbrush, he'd cleaned out all manner of unsightly things from jars in the back of Professor Ellfrick's old store cupboards, and even spent one precarious evening balanced on the top of the Astronomy tower in a howling gale trying to clean all of the telescopes.

As he slung his broom across his shoulder and marched out onto the pitch with the rest of the team, his mind was already looking ahead to his warm comfy bed at the end of the session. He was going to sleep well, tonight.

Fred fell in step on his right, and Al on his left. They were discussing last weekend's Quidditch match between Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. Ava Adams had led a fearless effort from the boys and girls in gold, and claimed a resounding victory, though it had come at a cost.

'Did you see the injury to their Beater?' Al asked. 'A Bludger right to the head.'

James winced at the mere memory of it. Thankfully, the lad hadn't fallen far, but the way his body had lain still and lifeless on the pitch afterward, and the horrified intake of breath from the crowd still chilled him.

'They've taken him to St. Mungo's,' Fred added. 'He could be out for months. He was good, too. Not as good as me, obviously. But that team will miss him.'

'Wonder who they'll find to replace him,' James mused idly. 'They've a good team, but not a lot of depth, from what I know. Ava will struggle to replace that talent.'

They had reached the centre of the pitch. James readied his broom and slung a leg over. 'Race to the top of the Gryffindor stand?'

With his superior broom, there was no way they'd beat him.

'Ready,' Fred called. 'Set…' And off he shot, without so much as a "go". James and Al both laughed as they tore off after him. The wind that whipped through James' hair had that familiar, comforting way of teasing out the tangle of worries and worldly problems that besieged him down on the ground. Up here, it felt as though nothing could reach him.

He was first to the top of the stand by a comfortable margin over the others. Even Al managed to sneak his nose in front of Fred by the finish.

Carina Swift, their captain, soon called them to the middle of the field and spoke to them in that soft, measured way of speaking she possessed.

'Our next game in two weeks is against Hufflepuff. I think they will be a good team, even with the injury to their Beater. It might be a really close game, and their Chasers are good. So I've come up with a new play for our Chasers that is guaranteed to score, if the game comes down to the wire and we need a quick goal. Particularly if the Snitch is in the air.'

Carina suddenly looked shy, as if afraid of her idea being ridiculed by the team.

'Do- do you guys want to hear it?'

'Yeah!' James hastened to say. 'It sounds awesome. Anything to show the spectators why Chasers are the best position on the field is fine by me.'

Carina shot him a smile, as the team devolved into a friendly argument about just which role was the most critical. An argument where, for once, James Potter and Preston Lynch were on the same side.

When a modicum of sanity had descended once more, Carina sent the Beaters and Al off to run some drills, and gathered the Chasers around herself in the middle of the pitch to outline her secret move.

James, Preston and Abbey Fisher all huddled around close, and listened as Carina spoke. It wasn't long before James' eyebrows were raising. And then his jaw slowly dropping open. He ran a hand through his hair – partly in wonder, partly in despair. When Carina trailed off, a touch of uncertainty in her voice, James was the first to speak.

'Carina that's… insane. It might be impossible. Is it even legal? Nevermind- that doesn't matter. I think it's absolutely _brilliant.'_

Her worry evaporated, and she smiled brightly, giving a little clap of excitement. 'I was thinking we could call it the Snake Snatcher,' she suggested. 'If- if that's ok with you?'

James nodded, grinning as he thought of the look on Odette's face as they outwitted them with Carina's move. 'I think that's perfect.'

The four of them took their places, simulating a restart of play after the opposition had just scored. As Lynch flew past James, he called out, 'Don't mess it up, Potter.' Though there was no venom in his words.

'Is that a patch of pink behind your ear I see, Lynch?' James shot back with a knowing smile. He laughed as Lynch started furiously scrubbing the spot in question and looking embarrassed.

As they were all arrayed in their ready positions, James was hit with a sudden chilling realisation. His eyes shot out to the stands. A few red-and-gold robed die-hard supporters were out braving the cool evening to watch. A small group gave a cheer as James' eyes passed over them. But he ignored it. He was searching for the spot he and Odette had occupied to spy on the Ravenclaws. He found it empty, but that didn't mean much. Odette was too clever for that.

Could anyone have heard what the team spoke about down in the centre of the pitch? Were they about to reveal a secret move to the other three teams? The way Odette had spoken, there was no way – barring a hidden, private practice that nobody knew about – that they'd be able to keep anything truly a secret from their opposition.

James just had to put faith in the fact that Odette – from wherever she was watching – wouldn't betray him enough to use her knowledge against him.

The move was every bit as difficult as it had sounded when Carina described it. Dropped Quaffles fell to the pitch like fat, ugly rain. Collisions abounded, communications broke down and were mixed up over and again. James even managed to mess up catching the Quaffle off the restart, underestimating the strength of Carina's throw and watching it sail uselessly over his head, halfway down the pitch. For a girl so delicate and quiet, she sure knew how to toss a Quaffle.

But it made it all the sweeter when, as the last of the light leaked out of the sky, Preston Lynch pounded the Quaffle home through the centre goal-hoop. Their first successful iteration of the move. A cheer went up that started a flock of birds gathered in the forest. The four of them flew to one another and celebrated like they'd just won a match. Scratches and bruises and dirt all but forgotten. The perfect move, perfectly executed. Guaranteed to put them ahead, should a desperate game ever ask it of them.

Down on the pitch, Fred and Al were shaking their heads together.

'What _were_ you doing?' Al asked, perplexed.

'You Chasers have finally lost it,' Fred agreed. 'That looked mental.'

'Good,' James grinned. 'That's half the point.'

'You know, I think you've got to be a roll of parchment short of a spellbook to be a Chaser,' Fred mused. 'Too many Bludgers to the head.'

'Well,' James shot back. 'If we had decent Beaters-'

But his retort was cut short by a round of calls from the stands up above them.

'Hey Al!'

'Looking good Al!'

'How's the King of Gryffindor?'

The three boys stopped. A grin spread across James' face.

'I see your fan club has come along, Al. Have you spoken to them since the last match? They seemed mighty keen to meet you.'

All of a sudden, Al found a little scuff mark on the pitch _very_ interesting.

'No, I- I haven't. Third year is a very busy year. Extra homework, and all of that.'

Fed rolled his eyes. ' _You_ should have been a Ravenclaw. Go talk to them now. Fly up on your broom, they'll love that.'

'I can't. I, erm… I'm all sweaty and muddy.'

'How does a _Seeker_ even get muddy…?' Fred asked.

'If you don't, I will,' James smirked, swinging his broom around and setting himself up to cast off. 'And I'll tell them about that time you accidentally exploded the upstairs toilet with your-'

'Fine, _fine!_ I'll do it. Just don't tell them that. Don't tell _anyone_ that.'

James watched as Al mounted his broom and flew up to where the girls overlooked them, somehow making the act seem surly and reticent. He tried to get a gauge of what they were saying. There was rather a lot of gesturing, and then an alarming amount of nervous giggling. Even on Al's behalf. It took approximately half a second after his brother touched back down before James and Fred were all over him, bundling him off into the changing rooms for details.

' _So?'_ Fred urged, plonking Al down on one of the wooden benches, and tossing his own sweat-stained shirt off across the room.

'So what?' Al replied. He was failing miserably at hiding an incredibly self-satisfied smile.

'Tell us, you pillock!' James was trying to make a show of rubbing down his broom, but his heart was only half in it. His eyes were fixed on Al.

'So, you know that there's a Hogsmeade weekend coming up…'

' _Yes,'_ they chorused expectantly.

'Well, they kind of invited me along, with them. To Madam Puddifoot's, and then the Shrieking Shack, and afterwards, the Three Broomsticks.'

'They _what?'_ James choked.

At the same time, Fred yelled, 'All _three?'_

'Erm, yeah. Is that… ok?'

James and Fred shared a flabbergasted look. 'How come it was never this easy for us?' James groaned.

Al, finally cottoning on, smiled a sly little smile. 'Well, you're only the Hero of Hogwarts. You've never been crowned as the King of Gryffindor…'

'And besides,' Fred added. 'It could have been. Leah and Rosie must have asked us a combined dozen times at least. We were just clever enough to say no… for the most part.'

James favoured Al with a serious look. 'That's right. They only tried to poison us, what, three times apiece? Tell me, O brother mine, how sharp are your Love Potion detecting skills, might I ask?'

Al had gone suddenly pale, all the wind taken from his sails. James and Fred wrapped an arm around one shoulder each and marched the poor boy out of the changing rooms together, unloading tales of dubious veracity about all manner of frightful encounters at the hands of their earliest fan club.

Al was white as a sheet before they'd even gone halfway up the hill.

But James' fun was cut short, as a massive, looming figure blocked the path up ahead.

'James,' boomed Hagrid through the still evening air. 'Wonderin' if I might have a word with yeh?'

James nodded, pointedly avoiding Al's questioning gaze. The more he kept his little brother sheltered from what they were getting up to, the better.

The two of them moved off the path a little way, into the shadows of some nearby trees. In the gathering dusk, it wasn't hard to imagine that they'd be unseen by anyone making the trek to or from the castle. James wondered at the need for secrecy.

Hagrid was wringing his giant hands nervously. Within them, James noticed what looked like a tiny scrap of parchment. When the half-giant handed it over, he realised that it was a full-sized letter. Complete with an official stamp and seal from the Ministry of Magic.

 _Dear Faculty,_

 _It my sincerest hope that this letter finds you well, and unburdened by the absence of your wayward headmistress._

 _I believe we stand united when I say that the safety and interests of our young students of Hogwarts – the future of Wizarding Britain – stand closest to all of our hearts. And it weighs upon our hearts at the Minsitry, as it must upon your own, to see our bold Headmistress currently unable to acquit herself in this role._

 _It is the belief of the Ministry – and one that I am sure you all will share – that strong leadership for our children is paramount. You may rest assured that your Ministry is working hard to remedy this situation._

 _In the meantime, I encourage you to focus on your jobs, as you have the most important tasks of all of us – raising our youth. We, at the Ministry encourage you to put full effort into your ministrations, and leave the administrative encumbrances to us. We must also, sadly dissuade you from trying to make contact with your Headmistress at this fragile time, as her situation in France becomes ever more tenuous – of entirely her own doing, and in no way a reflection on your own illustrious selves, for sure._

 _While we know it must be frustrating to have been abandoned by your leader, know that your Ministry is working on a remedy to the situation, and that any interference on your part would not be looked on kindly, indeed._

 _Hoping you are well, and sincerely yours,_

 _Calantha Merryweather_

 _Undersecretary to the Minister_

It was signed off with the most flowery signature James had ever seen. He and Hagrid shared a look filled with portent in that shadow-drenched corner of the grounds. Neither voiced the question, but it was there in their identical hooded gazes: _Did they know?_

'When did this come?' James asked. He hadn't realised, but his hands were shaking.

'Just this mornin', with the post.'

'It sounds to me like the Ministry is trying to seize power while Renshaw is away. _"Leave the administrative encumbrances to us"_ sounds a lot like _"Let us run the school"._ I don't like it.'

'You haven't… told anyone have you, James?'

James hesitated. Only those whom he trusted completely. They would not have betrayed him. Had they been seen on their last journey into the Forest? Had they been overheard? They'd need to be more careful, find a hidden place within the castle to discuss what they were doing.

'No one that would have given us away. They may just be guessing. They have to know the teachers are loyal to Renshaw. She's always done right by them. And us, I suppose.'

'There are students out there who's families stand to gain a lot from the Ministry taking control of Hogwarts. They tried it once in yer father's time. And it nearly worked, too.'

James' mind went immediately to Caspar Helstrom and his cohort of Ravenclaws who'd spoken out against Rain. Some of them were Ministry loyalists, he knew.

'We'll be extra careful,' he assured Hagrid.

'You'll need ter be. Next time, use your father's Cloak. We'll do it at night. Be back by mornin'.'

James' heart started racing the moment Hagrid mentioned _next time._ A lasting fear from those creatures still lingered, cold and animal, coiled in the pit of his stomach like a frightened beast.

He nodded. 'Let me know when the time comes. We'll be there.'

'Aye, now run along. Else we'll start looking suspicious.'

'I'll talk to Cat, then I'm off to bed. It's been a long day, I'm going to sleep like a baby tonight.'

He didn't.

All through the night, James tossed and turned. Moaning and cursing in his fitful sleep. Occasionally crying out in abject terror. His sheets became twisted and sweat-soaked. His blankets cast aside entirely. Dark, hooded figures haunted his never-ending nightmares, shapes who promised pain and oblivion and so much worse. They hunted him, had him cornered, unable to flee or cry for help. He felt trapped. And the worst part was that he felt entirely, horribly alone.

And unnoticed by him or by any, the locket that sat upon his chest, now stuck to his bared flesh by sweat, pulsed softly in time with his heartbeat. And in the Foe Glass that sat at his bedside – crafted by his own hands – dark, shadowy shapes began to swirl.


	11. Interlude II

A new day dawned with not a cloud to be seen. The narrow band of sky across the horizon still held a soft purplish glow, and the hint of one or two of the most resilient stars – the last vestiges of night just past. They faded into a strip of bruised mauve that marked the boundary before the pale blue stretching across the heavens. The border between night and day, that would linger on until the first of the sun's rays peaked over the distant horizon.

Or, at least, that's what the fake window Charmed onto the wall of her dark and damp cell told Rain would happen. Whether it held any link to the truth, she had no idea. She had not seen real sunlight since waking up in this cursed prison. Time passed by the coming and going of her captors, minutes counted by the steady drip of her leaking cell, and painted in pictures of these ceaseless, false mornings.

Some were grey and dreary, their mist-wrapped light shedding tears for her cause, some dark and stormy, railing against the injustice. But they were all just the same lie behind myriad different masks.

And she had lost count of them. As days had become weeks, and now, probably, months. She had told herself that salvation was coming, at first. That somebody would burst through the door and sweep her away to safety. She had shadows of memories that told her that was how it was supposed to go. That was how it _usually_ went. But not here, not in this life.

She'd laughed at her stupidity, after that. At her false hope and naiveté. Truly, who was there to save her? James Potter, whom she'd betrayed at the eleventh hour? Even now, he probably sat in Hogwarts castle cursing her memory. And, in truth, he was all that she had. There were no family, no other friends. None who cared about her at all, in fact. And so, in a mocking, cruel, kind of way that was altogether fitting, this life had become again a mirror to her first. All those countless ages ago.

Her laughter had swiftly become tears, after that.

Which was how, as the rusted iron handle to her cell began to turn, she was found both smiling and crying by the horrible woman who wept as she tore Rain's mind and body apart from within.

* * *

Gwendolyn Tuft couldn't help but utter a tiny gasp of despair as her gaze fell upon the emaciated form of the poor girl they were holding prisoner. She was grinning like a fool, while tracks of tears washed through the grime and filth coating her cheeks. Perhaps she'd finally been broken. The poor girl had gone insane at last.

She called for Raven, and fretted nervously while he came. Her wand was trained on the girl, though an attack appeared out of the question. They'd long since taken her wand, studied it, found it useless and mundane, and subsequently splintered it and burned the remains. For reasons he would not divulge, Raven was uncannily careful when it came to this poor, broken girl.

'What is it?' his deep, gravelly voice from a sudden proximity caused Gwendolyn to jump in fright.

She held a shaking hand to her breast as she replied in a tentative whisper. 'I think she's lost it. She's gone insane.'

Gwendolyn gestured to where the girl looked up at them. Had the brightness in her sea-green eyes taken on a crazed light?

'Have you tended to your… ministrations with her, today?' the tone was flat, devoid of any emotion, any skerrick of empathy.

'I found her thus. Rocking gently back and forth.'

'I betrayed him,' the girl suddenly laughed, apparently oblivious to their conversation. 'And now it's I who'll die. Is that funny? Ironic? Perhaps I should have killed him from the start. We felt ever so wrong, he and I. But… as if we had the power between us to make it _right.'_

Gwendolyn shot the poor girl a sympathetic look. 'I don't know how much more she can take. Physically _or_ mentally.'

'Do you think he'll kill me, when I escape?' the girl giggled. The portent of her sentence was not lost on Gwendolyn, despite its innocent delivery. 'When he finds out who I am? _What_ I am? Perhaps bringing him to me was a mistake. Perhaps he needed to die. But I always thought that if I had the Potter name by my side, the world would accept me as I remade it in my image. He would have been the perfect tool, and never known.'

 _Potter?_ What did he know? The disappearance of Harry Potter would be much harder to arrange…

Though it didn't surprise Gwendolyn that he was at the heart of it. Raven, however, was clearly of the mind to dismiss it as mindless babbling.

'Yet your reports indicate progress.' It wasn't a question. He ignored the girl completely.

'Well yes, that's true. There seems to be some sort of power draining her strength. Or… no, that's not quite right. It's more like a _lack_ of something that is beginning to weaken her. As if, here in this dungeon, she is separated from something that makes her whole. I think it's slowly killing her.'

'So then, you admit to significant progress?'

Gwendolyn screwed her eyes shut tight. He'd done it again, manipulated her into undercutting any counterargument she might have posed. The weaker the girl got, the more likely Gwendolyn was to succeed. There could be no stopping, now. She had all but spelled it out.

'A bit, yes.'

'Very well. Then we shall continue as we have been. I _will_ know the secrets this girl keeps. She is the key to it, of that I am certain.'

'There's no way she could have done what they say. A fifteen year old girl? Not a chance. Her protections are strong, and her mind is a maze, but that isn't impossible. There are some natural Talents-'

'Whether she caused the Infection, or she did not is irrelevant, now. All we needed was cause enough to justify getting our hands on her. There are some who might know, but they are proving… irritatingly reticent, as our French friends are in the midst of discovering.'

'Headmistress Renshaw?'

'Headmistress no longer, we should hope. Things have happened inside that school that we have been blind to. No longer. When we succeed here, that changes. Permanently.'

With that, Raven spun and stalked away, his long, trailing cloak lending his figure a shadowy edge. Sooner that was natural, he was lost from sight. Gwendolyn Tuft was left, alone with the girl. Her own wrecked visage was mirrored back in those wild, sea-green eyes.

To tear this girl apart, to lay her mind and her soul bare for reading, like the most perverse, forbidden scroll imaginable. It would be Gwendolyn's finest work. Her crowning glory as an academic, and as a witch. Beyond what many had even dreamed possible. And to uncover secrets behind the one who so warped the very fabric of the Magical Flux would be the utmost statement of loyalty for the one to whom she owed her life, the one who had sworn to oversee its upkeep: Raven. It was everything she could have ever dreamed of, for the whole of her life.

But as she surveyed the gaze of the broken, little girl before her, she wondered if the price might not be more costly than the reward. And whether or not she now shared a cell with the girl in more than name alone.


	12. Clue

The room was dim. More so than it ought to have been. Darkness ruled. And, perhaps more importantly, that space in between darkness, into which so much mystery and portent and illusion could be crammed: shadow. The door swung softly open upon oiled hinges. James peered around, blinking rapidly in the hopes his eyes would adjust. Trees raked across window panes outside, eerie fingers clawing in from the night to snatch at him.

A hand from the darkness gripped his shoulder and James let out an unwieldy squawk of fright. He windmilled his arms as he was lifted off balance, and then bodily up off the floor. He flapped like a startled chicken, caught between fumbling for his wand, and going for his attacker, up until a parting of the shadows before a sliver of moonlight revealed the benign face behind it.

' _Professor?'_

'Get in there, Potter and don't make a sound.' Professor Zoe Meadows hissed, stuffing him unceremoniously into a nearby cabinet. 'New format for today's detention. By the way, you squeal like a girl.'

'I wasn't-' James began to protest, before the door was swung shut on his face, squishing the tip of his nose most painfully. He cursed Professor Meadows from her eyes to her stupid missing leg as he sat there in the absolute darkness, his eyes watering with pain, feeling like a complete and utter fool.

But no sooner had James decided he wasn't going to stand for the humiliation, and prepared to burst from the cupboard – if only to stop Zoe Meadows' horrendously off-tune humming from continuing – than sounds of the door to the classroom opening froze him in place.

The true reason for secrecy, then. Was this to be a clandestine meeting between professors? A secret council to which nobody else was privy? Perhaps Hagrid had spoken to Professor Meadows about what they were doing in the forest. James felt like he could trust her, perhaps he was about to get another piece in the puzzle of just what might be lurking in the Forest, and how to get Renshaw back-

'Who were you talking to, just now?'

James groaned audibly. Or, it could be another of Professor Meadows' disastrous and ill-fated attempts at reuniting himself and Holly Brooks.

'Nobody. Myself.'

'You're a terrible liar.' Holly's footsteps crossed the room, she must have come within inches of where James was hidden. She froze. 'What was that?' James held his breath.

'Er… cats. I was practising transfiguration earlier. I think a few escaped.'

 _Thud._ James had to bite his tongue from yelping in pain as he'd cracked his elbow on something hard and sharp.

'A few… dozen?'

'No,' the professor said, rather sternly. 'Just a few fat, obnoxious ones who _don't know when to shut up.'_

'Riiiight.'

There were sounds of footsteps and shuffling. A light _thunk_ that might have been a bag being set down. James noticed that a sliver of a gap between the doors of his makeshift prison could afford him a meagre vantage of the room without. The dim, shadowy classroom became lit up like the midday sun in comparison to the smothering darkness that was crowding around him inside the cupboard.

He saw Holly rummaging about in her backpack. Her back was to him, her shoulders hunched forward and eyes set on her task. When she stopped and began to tug her jumper up over her head, James gasped and averted his gaze. But she was merely removing excess clothing. A loose black silk shirt glimmered softly beneath, her trousers were spun from a similar material, bunched in at ankle and waist, rippling softly about her calves in an unfelt breeze.

It was all of a sudden painfully apparent just what Professor Meadows had smuggled him in here to see. It appeared that he alone was to bear witness to the private world behind Holly's enigmatic and captivating fighting style. A form that had stolen the hearts, and probably the something else, of half of the young boys of Hogwarts: Holly Brooks' Dance.

Perhaps Professor Meadows thought that in sharing this secret between the two of them, they might find some common ground. That a secret shared was bond strong enough to bridge the gulf between them.

James was more of the opinion that it was merely fodder for her to execute him even more painfully when she found out.

'Good day?' the professor asked from out of James' sight, as Holly busied herself fastening her wand to a loop in her belt. There was a rustle of movement and James heard, rather than saw the tables of the room picking themselves up and marching sullenly towards the walls.

'Average.' James heard the shrug in Holly's voice. He waited for the moment she would pop the end of her braid into her mouth while she ruminated on a more extended answer. But it never came. 'Three separate blokes asked me to Hogsmeade today. I told them no. Spoke to Georgia Braithwaite.'

In the darkness, James raised his eyebrows. Professor Meadows voiced his alarm. 'I believe the last time you and Miss Braithwaite crossed paths, you ended up less one fistful of hair, and she ended up with one quite spectacular black eye.'

Holly turned so that her back was facing to James. He'd have paid his last Galleon to get a chance to see the look on her face, as her reply was a long time in coming.

'She wants me to say yes to one of them. Peregrine Auteberry, a fifth-year Slytherin. Georgia knows Bridget O'Flynn fancies him, and it'll kill her to see him go with me.'

James had to stop himself from bursting out of the cupboard then and there to shake some damned sense into Holly. Thankfully, Professor Meadows seemed to beat him to it. She appeared momentarily in the small sliver of room that James could see, reaching out and grabbing Holly by the scruff of the neck with surprising dexterity.

'And what business is it of yours? Some petty argument that you are going to drag yourself into? Scuff your good name even more, and for what? I certainly hope you said no.'

James watched as Holly shoved the Professor's hands away, and took a step back, just out of his line of sight.

'What I said is none of _your_ damned business, is what it is.'

'Holly, I'm trying to help you.'

'Like _hell_ you are!' The building tension in the room snapped suddenly, shattered by Holly's scream.

James leaned against the cupboard door, widening the crack minutely, caught in that uncertain space between action and inaction, unsure if making his presence known would de-escalate the situation or make it worse.

'You just watch the way you talk to me, young lady,' Professor Meadows growled. Both of them were squared off eye to eye, mere inches from each other's face. 'I'm the one looking out for you. I'm-'

'You're trying to turn _me_ into _you!'_ Holly spat. James could see her chest rising and falling with rapid breath. The cold blaze in her eyes seared even through the distance between them. 'Don't think I don't see it. Don't think I'm stupid, Zoe. I'm you, and James is my Teddy. And it kills you that we'll never be together. So stop trying to force us to be something that you never could be. Because just like you and Teddy, it will _never_ happen.'

Zoe looked as if Holly had just kicked her in the stomach. Her eyes popped, and her mouth worked for a second, before that wildfire temper for which she was so famous burst forth in a furious blaze.

'You don't know what the _fuck_ you're talking about, you ungrateful brat!' the last few remaining tables flew up against the wall. The splintering crashes caused James to flinch back. Windows shattered, his cupboard rocked from the blow. And his cracked doors swung slowly, traitorously open.

Both women drew their wands at once, and with no other action left save to be caught as a bystander, James burst forth from his failing hiding place, and threw himself between them.

Up close, he could feel the air between the two crackling and charged with magic. Both woman of infamous tempers were moments away from letting loose. Holly's wild eyes flicked form James to Zoe, and back again. Whatever she saw changed her confusion to resentment, and she wheeled away from the two of them in disgust.

'Of course.' She spat. 'Of _course_ you're here. Why am I even surprised?'

Holly made to stalk from the room, but James reached out and grabbed her arm. She tried to jerk free, but he was the stronger of them.

'Wait, Holly. The professor brought me here to try and make things right.'

'I know what she was trying to do, James,' she laughed bitterly. 'You were there just now. You heard it.'

'I just want to put this behind us, Holly.' He met her eyes, one hand still wrapped tightly about her upper arm. She hadn't tried to break away again. Yet.

'The fact that you're playing along with this is just as pathetic, James. You were here, listening in, so you heard what I told her. We'll _never_ be what she was, James. I meant it.'

James took a deep, shuddering breath. There was a cold sensation clanging deep within his chest that echoed and whistled like a great, empty cavern.

'We don't have to be what they were, Holly. I… Just tell me how to make _this_ stop. I'll do anything.'

She stepped back, and James let her go. Behind him, James heard Professor Meadows shift and mumble something, incoherent, but at that moment his world was centred on Holly Brooks, and the cooling of her burning rage.

But he watched as her expression frosted over even further. Her anger faded and was replaced by a smile that was cold and sinister and calculated. Icy grey eyes turned from blazing fire to frozen flecks. And her expression became, for want of a better word, so very _Slytherin,_ in that chilling, devious way that was everything that Holly wasn't. Or, at least, the Holly that James thought he knew.

'You want to make this stop, James? Fine, my price is thus: Restitution.'

James looked on, confused. He let his hand fall to his side. Holly rolled her shoulders, as if to rid herself of the memory of his touch. When she continued, a malevolent gleam was in her eye.

'This weekend. Your date with Odette Mansfield. Half the school is talking about it. Puddifoot's is booked three deep the whole day through by these sad sacks hoping to get a table in earshot of the two of you.'

'And…?' James didn't like where he thought that this was going.

'I want my justice. My parity. My closure. Stand her up. Don't show. Leave her sitting there waiting for you, alone, for the whole school to see. Embarrass her like she has never known before. She'll be a laughingstock. It will kill her inside. With a bit of luck, for the rest of her days here.

'That, James Potter, is what I ask of you to make this right.'

'Holly, that… that's not _fair.'_

'Don't speak to me of _fair,_ James. Don't you dare. After you do this, the water between us will be clear. Know that we will still, never be friends. But this… animosity, it will fade. You will have lost me, and Odette forever. And that is as it should be. It is what you deserve. That, James, will be _fair._ '

James ran a single, shaking hand through his hair in dismay. He opened his mouth to speak, but Holly snatched at her bag and wheeled away before he could utter a single word.

Professor Meadows finally spoke up. And her tone was apologetic. 'James…'

'Shit.' James swore, cutting her off. He bent down and picked up a fragment of splintered table leg, and tossed it as hard as he could at the broken windows. His throw shattered the last remaining pane.

' _Shit!'_

'James-'

'No,' James barked, turning to face the professor, and lowering his hand to point directly at her. 'No more. _Ever._ We are done here.'

He backed from the room, his own gaze burning with an anger so hot as to keep the professor silent.

The slamming door behind him echoed through a room as broken and damaged as the ones who had occupied it just moments ago.

It took James a full twenty-four hours to cool down following his run-in in the Defence classroom. Holly's ultimatum hung over him everywhere he went. He avoided Odette the whole of the following day, begging off from spying on the Hufflepuff practice with her by faking ill, choosing instead to hide himself away in a corner of the library with his friends, as far from any of the headache-inducing girls as he could manage.

'Clip is that sock _pink?'_

'Erm… maybe.'

'Show me- is that _lace?'_

'I- yea, I guess.'

'Is there… something you've been meaning to tell us?'

'No, you Puffapod-brain! This is _your_ doing.'

Fred, who'd been querying him burst out into laughter. James and Tristan were quick to follow. 'Merlin's beard man, I didn't know you got caught in the crossfire!'

'Just a sock or two. And my favourite t-shirt that is now a sports bra.'

'Quick, someone grab his collar,' Tristan shot. 'Make sure he's not still wearing it.'

Clip tossed a piece of balled-up parchment at him for good measure, as all four boys laughed heartily – yet quietly – so as not to call down Madam Cresswell's fabled ire.

'The trim on Lynch's robes is still pink,' James said with the hint of a smile. 'And I don't think he's worked out how to Transfigure his pillows back from those pink lacy things with dolls on them.'

'Odin Mills had left his trunk open,' Fred said, wiping tears away. 'He's been walking around in thongs all week. It's like he's got an everlasting wedgie.'

'Where did you get that thing?' Tristan asked.

'Dad Transfigured a corridor back when he was at school. He helped me sort of… tweak a few things. Less swampy, and a touch more frilly. And we toned it down a touch. Teach those boys to try take over the dorm room.'

'Tone it down?' James scoffed. 'Mate, I'm still pulling glitter out from between the sheets every morning.'

'Just wait until Odette gets in there,' Tristan shot. 'That job will never end.'

James grabbed the nearest book and tossed that at Tristan's stupid, grinning face. Unfortunately, Tristan caught it without any grievous bodily harm to speak of. James was still trying to put off thinking about Odette.

'Careful, mate. This is sacred. You can't be tossing it around like some ordinary peasant-book. That's sacrilege!'

Tristan cradled the copy of _Twelve Failsafe Ways to Charm Witches_ like it was his first newborn child.

James had been reading it in the hopes of finding inspiration on how to deal with his current situation. So far, he'd learned seven ways to greet Odette at the beginning of their date, forty-three approved topics of conversation, and nine items of clothing he should avoid wearing during the date. He'd skipped over the part about what to do _after_ the date, which was at least nine chapters long in itself, and seemed to be the inspiration for many of the crude stick-figure diagrams Tristan loved to poke into his textbooks at inopportune moments.

It appeared that Tristan's solve-all text of wonder and righteousness was disappointingly light on chapters about how to deftly weave out of ultimatum's involving two girls wanting precisely opposite things, both of whom weren't above hexing him if they didn't get their way.

'Where's the chapter on getting rid of them?' Tristan asked.

Or that.

'Which mean girl is scaring little Tristan?' Fred mocked in a baby voice.

'Chloe _bloody_ Swann,' Tristan sighed. 'I dumped her at the start of the year. But she's shown up waiting for me outside _every_ class this week. It's like she has my timetable memorised.'

'She is a Ravenclaw, mate. She probably has.'

'The other day, she was waiting for me in the basement, on my way to the common room. It was like she knew I was going to be there! To tell me that they forecast cold weather for Hogsmeade this weekend, and that my grey sweater would match her outfit better than my yellow one!'

'That is a little… eccentric,' Clip stated diplomatically.

'It's bloody terrifying, is what it is!'

'What did you see in her, in the first place, mate?' James asked.

Tristan rubbed his cheeks in thought. 'I dunno, she just started hanging around. Showed an interest in me, I guess.'

'Leah Ridley has been interested in me from day one. She's also poisoned me _at least_ twice. That I know of. Just because the potion is brewed, that doesn't mean you should stick your finger in it.'

'Woah, I didn't stick _anything_ anywhere. And besides, she was kind of cute.'

'Cute?' asked Cassie, rounding the corner with no fewer than a dozen books tucked under her arms. 'Chloe Swann? Perhaps in a kicked puppy sort of a way.'

Clip automatically shuffled aside so that there was clearly space next to him. Cassie either didn't see, or chose to ignore him, and sat down across from James, dumping her books on the table so that it groaned beneath their weight.

'I see we still haven't gotten past that Charms test she out-scored you in,' Fred offered with a smile. 'Or was it that Swelling Solution that grew her pumpkin _slightly_ larger than yours. Or could it be that time-'

'Fred Weasley I've sworn to protect any and all books I come across, but I'm willing to bend that rule and paint a few with your blood if you don't stop talking _right now.'_

Fred's jaw clicked shut. From the corner of his eye James saw Tristan stuffing his _Twelve Ways_ book into a pocket of his robe. Cassie and the girls had done far worse when they caught them with it at the beginning of the previous year.

Cat arrived not long after Cassie, carrying with her a huge rock, bigger around than her own head. She, too, plonked it on the table, and James was certain he heard the beginnings of a splintering sound from the poor, beleaguered desk. They all took turns trying to lift it. Tristan was the only one who succeeded. They'd learned by now not to bother asking what it was for.

'That's a lot of books, Cassandra,' Cat observed. 'Are you learning about the lineages of the Trannslyvanian vampires? Or the four secret entrances to the Ministry of Magic? I've heard there are codes hidden in texts that offer up their location.'

James had never heard such a thing in his life.

'Er, no Kattala, I'm…' she trailed off, shooting James an uncertain look. But he nodded, and took up the response. He'd been waiting for a moment to gather his friends and tell him of his plan.

'We're getting Rain back,' he explained, and told them everything he had said to Cassie the other night, finishing by unlooping the golden chain from his neck and passing around the locket for them all to inspect.

They all peered into its murky depths. Fred held it up to the light, Clip tapped it tentatively with his wand. Cat stuck out her tongue and licked it. But it remained quiet through all of their curiosity. Finally, when it made its way back to James, Clip spoke up.

'Do you think that's… wise to try and find Rain?'

'Think hard, Clip,' Fred told him. 'Cast your mind back to the last time James Sirius Potter did _anything_ that you or anybody would consider _wise.'_

'Hey!'

'No, that's a pair point, Fred.'

'Exactly.'

'I do worry though,' Clip continued. 'About people like that Caspar Helstrom. He's an arse, but he has got Ministry ties through both of his parents, and he's made it plain he outright dislikes Rain. With Renshaw gone, now is the perfect time for the Ministry to move and get more control at Hogwarts. We should take care, is all I'm saying. I'd hate to have our success in returning one come at the price of the other.'

'Caspar and his cronies can jam their wands up their backsides and practise _Confringo_ for all I care,' James growled. 'They don't scare me. Here, Cassie, I got this back today.'

Cassie took the folded parchment James offered her and smoothed it flat atop one of her many books. At James' gesture, she began to read.

' _Dear Mister Potter, we thank you for your concern regarding the wellbeing of your friend. We can confirm Miss Rain was brought to us on the twelfth day of June, earlier this year. Beyond that, we are bound by numerous Ministry Statutes to keep her condition and whereabouts private. Should you wish to enquire further, we direct you to contact Roderick Hardrock, from the Department of Enquiries, address below._

' _Faithfully yours, Senior Healer, Gwendolyn Tuft.'_

'Shit.' James swore.

'Wait a minute…' Clip said, his hand held up as if he were reaching for something. 'Rain should have been admitted on the thirteenth, not the twelfth. That's a day too early.'

'Oh, well done, Clip,' Cassie beamed. 'Good pick-up.'

Clip smiled, all of a sudden looking rather abashed.

'Could just be a mistake,' Tristan shrugged. 'I bet they were busy that day. Few injuries in that stampede. Including that French bird that Beauxbatons tried to make a song and dance about.'

'Could be,' James agreed. 'Has anyone heard of those names? Roderick Hardrock? Gwendolyn Tuft?'

The group all shook their heads.

'That stamp is a bit odd,' Cat noted, gesturing to the green wax imprint of the crossed wand-and-bone.

'You're right!' Cassie gasped. 'They're the wrong way around. The wand should be on the left, not the bone.'

'I don't like it,' James said. He was fiddling idly with the locket in one hand, rubbing a thumb across the clear, glassy surface, caressing the swirling enigmatic light within. He reached out a hand for Cassie to pass him the parchment.

The moment his fingers touched it, the locket flared hot and bright, so strong that it caused all six of them to rear back from its glow. James' hands were locked to it, he felt the heat searing his fingers, so hot that it must be melting away his flesh. But some unknown force of magic bound his hand to that hard, unforgiving surface. The pain began to lance up his entire arm. Somewhere, distant, he heard a scream of abject terror. So frightened and pained and forlorn that it caused his heart to ache with despair.

The rapture ended only when Cassie managed to reach out and snatch the letter free from his hand. The glow muted, the burning faded to a memory. James' fingers were unharmed. The lifeless stone clattered heavily to the tabletop between them all.

'Bloody hell,' Fred breathed. 'You all right mate?'

James nodded shakily. 'Did- did anyone hear that scream?'

He got a round of blank looks. 'What are you talking about?'

'A scream, I heard it just now…' he swallowed, uncertainly. He could have sworn he knew that voice, though he'd never heard such fear in it before in his life. It had been Rain. He was certain.

'Nobody screamed, James,' Cat assured him, resting a hand gently upon his arm. Her pale blue eyes were brimming with concern.

'I don't like it.' He said to the group. This note, the way the Locket is acting. Something is up, I'm sure of it. I think something has happened to Rain. No, I'm almost sure of it. And I'm going to find out what.'

'I'll research those names,' Cassie offered. 'They're our first clue. And there's a bookstore in Hogsmeade that might have something to help with the Locket. It's in a section kept barred from the students, but I can usually sweet-talk the young worker into letting me in.'

'Ahem,' Clip interjected. 'I think I'll come along for that. To, erm… help.'

James smiled, as his friends rallied around him. Their first clue, their first step to bringing Rain back, and they were all on board, as they should be. The hunt had begun in earnest.


	13. Stiletto

Sunlight slanting through a gap in the curtains was little more than an irritant to James Potter, as he paced back and forth, alone in his dormitory. He ran his hands through tousled hair for the umpteenth time. From far below, the sound of merriment announced the careless departure of his peers. His eyes swung around the room like a caged animal looking for escape. For an answer, for inspiration, for anything to take the burden of choice from his shoulders just this once.

For James Potter had a decision to make, and its consequences would be far-reaching, indeed.

* * *

The paltry heat offered by the pallid sun had faded the instant it slunk behind the gathering of steely clouds that crowded the sky to the east. A wind rolled down the mountains from the north, bringing with it the promise of coming winter, and the memories of trapped snow, caught in the darkest, highest places among the peaks.

Odette Mansfield bit down on her tongue rather than outwardly shivering as the breeze tugged at a few loose strands of her hair, and dragged chill fingers across her exposed flesh. That her skirt was far shorter than most would deem appropriate, or that the bared strip of skin exposed across her midriff was ill-suited for the chilly weather did not faze her. Nor would she have altered her outfit overmuch had it been snowing when they departed Hogwarts. Today was to be her first _true_ date with James Potter. And she'd be damned if she didn't plan to have his eyes on her for every single second of it.

Though she'd never admit to him quite how long it had taken her to prepare for this occasion. Or just how much deliberating had gone into this _particular_ outfit. Months – years, really – of keeping track of just what it was about her that captivated him, seeing where his eyes went to when they met, gauging his reaction to her presence and appearance. All, it felt like, in preparation for this moment.

And she'd never, _ever_ tell him how she'd been bubbling with excitement for it like a little school girl at her first dance. She was Odette Mansfield, for Morgana's sake! _She_ was the one over whom lesser men drooled. This was _her_ school; everyone in it either worshipped her or hated her, and she took no small satisfaction knowing that their hatred was steeped only in jealousy.

The nerve of James Potter to sweep in on his broomstick and have her heart a-flutter like some newly-minted first-year over the Quidditch Captain. She'd gone further and been bolder with bigger men than he. It was just a pity she had to be constantly reminding herself of the fact.

The town clock begun to chime twelve. Long, loud clanging drew a hush down over the chatter of the busy streets. One among many – a still eddy in a seething current – Odette tossed her head with the first shadow of impatience.

Was this how her victims among the males of Hogwarts had felt whilst waiting on herself? The least the boy could do was be on time!

Hundreds of bright-eyed Hogwarts students crowded the streets and alleyways of Hogsmeade village on weekends such as this. Their faces and their smiles and their excited laughter brought about an entirely new atmosphere to the usually-sleepy little hamlet, nestled in the shadows of the craggy mountain peaks. Noise and bustle and a festive atmosphere that only a horde of young children enraptured by the potential of the outside world could provide.

And on this day, it was almost certain that none were grinning as brightly, nor did any others have quite the air of smug self-satisfaction that Clip Wallace did possess.

He was strolling down the main street arm-in-arm with Cassandra Featherstone, after all!

Well, _figuratively_ arm-in-arm. They were actually more akin to what one would describe as shoulder-to-shoulder. With a nominal ten to fourteen centimetres between them at any given time. It simply wouldn't do to crowd.

And Cassie- Clip paused to correct himself – _Cassandra_ – had outlined the ground rules very clearly when they had attended the dance together in their third year. Overt physical contact in a public space was at least a third date milestone, she had told him. However special allowances had been granted for the occasion of their dancing, of course.

Not that they'd been dating then – or were dating _now_ , for that matter, Clip hastened to remind himself. A union of convenience, she had called it at the time. Their current expedition, an outing of necessity and import. There was a sort of distance in the formality.

Although _technically…_ they had made plans – _alone_ – to head to Hogsmeade – _together_ – to go to a bookshop – something they _both_ loved doing – and then had the entire rest of the day to themselves. _Themselves._

As far as Clip was concerned, if it looked like a duck and quacked like a duck…

He really ought to have spent a little more time snooping through that book that James, Fred and Tristan were so hung up about. The truth was, though, that he'd never really had the time to be as fixated on girls as those three had become. He didn't like to speak about it, but he was finding his classes incredibly taxing.

He could recite all of the theory by heart through to their sixth year. It was the practice that got him. Somehow, for reasons unbeknownst to him, actually casting the spells was proving to be a great hurdle. Even a simple _Lumos_ required full concentration lest he be left with little more than a lone, pitiful spark. The most frustrating part was that he _knew_ it all. The wand-work, the enunciation, his forms and runes and visualisations, all of it he had honed to absolute perfection. But that final step, actually summoning on his own magical power to cast the spell, often left him flailing and exhausted.

And as a Muggleborn, it terrified him. That he was too much Muggle, or part Squib, or some other half-breed that wasn't quite qualified for a magical education. He feared the coming years and the gruelling slog that was the OWLs, and NEWTs. To be shown so much of the vibrancy and dynamism of the magical world, but to fail to grasp it, would be too much for him to take.

And so all of his mental efforts went into practising his magic, to keep that looming beast of failure and expulsion at bay for one more year each time around.

Thus, he'd been absolutely clueless as to how to continue things on with – ahem – _Cassandra_ after his thoroughly enjoyable night at the Ball. That an opportunity for another not-date had fallen into his lap had been too good to pass up. And besides, there had been a certain theory that he'd been dying to test out…

'It certainly is cold today. I think it might snow in the mountains tonight.'

'Tomorrow night, if you believe the _Prophet,'_ Cassandra corrected. 'Though I think you've a more accurate hypothesis. It certainly feels like snow.'

 _Success!_ Polite small talk – including, but not limited to the weather, homework, or aspirations for their magical curriculum – had been on Cassandra's exhaustive list as acceptable on a second date. _Date!_

Clip let out a little excited noise from deep within his throat. Cassandra looked at him from the corner of her eyes. The gravitas of what she'd just done must have suddenly hit her, as her eyes bulged, and she bit down on her lower lip all of a sudden. A new flush of red that had nothing to do with the chill coloured her cheeks, and she didn't say another word until they arrived at their destination.

'So, erm… who is this assistant again?'

After many a twist and turn and dark alleyway, they'd found the shop they sought. A bookshop so shady and dingy and derelict that Clip thought it wont to fall over in the next strong breeze. The interior was how he imagined a store in Knockturn Alley to look, if those sorts of people were ones to even read. Grimy windows let in almost none of the sunlight outside, and a few meagre candles leaning drunkenly on the table and crying into endless pools of wax offered little enough light as to be practically useless. Thick, silvery cobwebs hung bunched in the corners of the room. One bore something as big as Clip's hand that was still writing as they both studied it.

Not altogether his first choice of places to spend a date. Or not-date.

'He's a local boy,' Cassandra explained rather airily. 'Home-schooled. His parents don't believe in structured and standardised education. Imagine that!'

'Right. And… how old is he, did you say?'

'I did not. He is sixteen, I believe.'

 _Great._ 'Oh, right.'

'Welcome to Grimshaw and Heartswallows, how may I- oh, Cass! Nice to see you.'

Cass? _Cass?!_ Clip had to bite back a laugh. This fop was about to get his head snapped off.

'Hi Burt, it's good to be back,' _Cass_ giggled. She giggled! The Cassandra Featherstone that Clip knew did _not_ giggle.

'How've you been?' Burt asked. He was tall. Too tall, if you asked Clip. All elbows and knees. And Clip could barely see his face from where Burt was lurking in the shadows of a doorway to the back room. He wore an oversized t-shit of a Muggle band Clip recognised, despite the draft in the store making it at least as cold as the outside.

'Oh, you know,' Cassandra sighed. She was bouncing on the balls of her feet as if bubbling with excitement. Clip was torn between looking on avidly, or looking away in outrage. Things were _moving!_

'Yeah…' Burt said, nodding. He wore a wide grin that Clip would have said made him look a little slow. He kept shooting Clip uncertain and none-too-friendly glances.

'I… I see you got new glasses,' smiled _Cass_ , taking a step up to the counter. Clip could see her standing on tip-toes to be able to see over it. 'They, er, make it very easy to see your eyes.'

Burt gave a single bark of laughter, and rubbed his neck awkwardly. Merlin, but this _Cass_ was good!

'So, Burt. Do you think I might be able to get a peek in your back…? _The_ back! A look in _the_ back. At… at your books.'

But Burt's beady eyes were fixed squarely on Clip.

'Who's your friend?' he asked, very pointedly.

'Oh, _this?'_ Cass tittered. Cassandra Featherstone! Tittering! Clip had seen it all. 'This is just my cousin, er… Marcus. Say hello, Cousin Marcus, don't be rude.'

When Clip could only manage a stupefied, bug-eyed stare, Cass elbowed him in the stomach, drawing forth a sort of 'Eormph!' sound, as if someone had just punted a Kneazle.

'Er, hello, mate,' Burt said slowly.

'Don't worry about him,' laughed Cass. And she continued in an exaggerated sort of whisper, as if Clip wouldn't be able to understand. 'He's not really _all_ _there.'_

'Oh, right.' Burt was nodding gravely, and staring at Clip in a new and pitying light.

Clip was not a violent man, but he was about ready to try and Hex someone. Probably Burt and his stupid, oversized spectacles.

He waved _Cass_ out towards the back room, and alternated between making terrible jokes that Cass seemed to love, but that Clip could tell _Cassandra_ was fake-laughing at, and watching over Clip as if he were an Erumpent horn, balanced on the edge of a table and about to fall.

 _Finally,_ Cassandra emerged with a triumphant smile, and a great, dusty, grey tome tucked under one arm. It must have weighed almost as much as she.

'Thank you so much for this, Burt.'

'I'll see you next time, Cass.' There was a hint of a question in his tone.

'Oh, Burt, I can hardly wait.'

Clip didn't even bother nodding his farewell, only marching out of that damned, dingy place as fast as his feet would allow. The moment they turned up a street out of sight and earshot, he started chanting 'I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.'

But it had all nearly been worth it all to see the real Cassandra Featherstone laugh the way she was at that moment. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. She wheezed and gasped for breath. Her nose crinkled, and her whole face transfigured into something so unlike her usual reserved façade that Clip couldn't help but laugh along with her.

As they turned back on to the main street the town clock struck twelve. The day was young and it was all theirs. Clip knew for certain that it had all been worth it when he felt the surprise touch of Cassandra's hand slipping into his own as they made their way up the street together.

* * *

The scrawny little quiet one and the swot girl. How… unimaginative. Odette smirked as she watched the two friends of James' turn onto the high street, hand in hand. Away from their peers, they probably thought that they were getting away with… whatever people like them did on a Hogsmeade weekend.

The both of them walked past Odette without even noticing. The stupid, scrawny git was too busy ogling the tiny girl on his arm to even glance in Odette's direction. She scowled at their backs as they passed up the street.

James had damn well best be looking at _her_ with that same rapt attention when he got here… _If_ he got here…

* * *

'She's looking at me.'

'No, you bloody Horklump, she's _definitely_ looking at me.'

'In _that_ ugly sweater? Mate, I doubt it.'

Fred and Tristan, both sat at a small, crooked table in the centre of the bustling Three Broomsticks pub, jostled just as crookedly for position, slopping generous portions of Butterbeer out of their mugs and all over the table. No fewer than a dozen empty glasses littered the table between the two of them.

'Who even _are_ they?' Tristan asked, squinting none-too-subtly at the pair of girls making eyes at them across the crowded room. 'I don't recall them from class.'

'They're Slytherins,' Fred noted, making a slightly more subtle effort while taking a swig from his mug. 'Who else would wear that bright green dress with that electric blue hair? They must be sixth-years; they're drinking Firewhiskey.'

'Blimey,' Tristan breathed, going for a mouthful of his own drink and spilling half of it down his garish jumper. ' _Slytherins._ I don't remember the last time I talked to a Slytherin that wasn't to borrow a quill or copy from a textbook. The elusive ones. The Forbidden Fruit.'

'Unless you're James bloody Potter,' Fred said with a wry smile. 'And you'll chase after anything in a green-hemmed skirt.'

'Let's go talk to 'em,' Tristan said, finishing his glass. This time mostly into his mouth. 'James can't be allowed to have _all_ the fun.'

Fred nodded, and together they made to push up from their seats and march purposefully over.

'Tristan, _sweetie,_ there you are! I've been looking all over for you. I should have known you'd be here, drinking all of Madam Rosmerta's Butterbeer, you naughty boy!'

Before Tristan really knew what was happening, he'd received a kiss on the cheek, a slap on the backside, and Chloe Swann was sat firmly and squarely in his lap with one arm wrapped around his neck. She was like a whirlwind of terror and confusing emotions. He shot Fred a look that unequivocally screamed _"Help!"_

'Chloe… it's so… _nice_ to see you.' Merlin, but he hoped she didn't have any Veritaserum handy. Though he wouldn't put it past her.

'I _told_ you not to wear the yellow jumper, silly. Now I feel like a right ninny because we clash so horribly!'

'You know, Chloe, I tried to tell him,' Fred was shaking his head solemnly. Tristan was glaring straight murder at him from behind Chloe's back.

'Isn't he so stubborn? Has he told you yet that he once thought of breaking up with me?'

Fred clapped his hands to face in mock surprise. ' _No._ He wouldn't!'

' _See_ Tristan, even your friends agree!'

Tristan was about ready to leap across the table and throttle Fred where he sat with that stupid, smug smile.

Blue-hair and her friend were now pointedly looking elsewhere.

'Erm, Chloe…'

'Yes, darling?'

'Fred and I were just about to order some more drinks. We're all out, you see. Do you mind holding the table for us?'

'Of course. I'll have a large one. Extra sweet. Extra foam. You know how I like it.'

Fred – to his credit with an entirely straight face – managed to say, 'Well, Chloe, I for one think you're already sweet enough.'

Chloe gave an ear-jarring _squee_ of excitement and clapped her hands together. 'Oh, Tristan, don't your friends and I get along _so well?'_

'I'm going to kill you,' Tristan shot from the corner of his mouth as they made their way through the press towards the bar. 'I'm going to murder you and everything you've ever loved. I'm going to use your broomstick as kindling to start the fire in which I'm going to burn your damned satchel bag. I will end you, Fred Weasley. Just you wait.'

Fred's olive skin was turning an unhealthy shade of purple as he tried desperately to hold in the waves of laughter than had his entire body shaking with mirth.

'This is- the _best_ \- trip- ever,' he managed in fitful gasps.

'You owe me,' Tristan glowered. 'Big time.'

'Fair,' Fred nodded. 'I've got you. Look back now, tell me what you see.'

'Nothing. Some fat Ravenclaw seventh year passed out on a table.'

'Exactly. This place is so crowded, we can't see Chloe. So she can't see us. I say we go to the bar, you bolt, and I'll take the drinks back. Tell her you're in the bathroom. Should at least give you a few minutes head start.'

'You'd- you'd do that for me?'

'Aye.'

'You don't know what she's like. What you're getting yourself into.'

'We're brothers, Tristan. We have to have each other's backs.'

'You know I'd do the same for you.'

'Aye, I know.'

Tristan offered Fred a solemn salute. 'Well then, brother. If either of us make it out of this alive, I'll see you on the other side.'

Fred downed the last dregs of his drink. 'To a safer tomorrow.'

And Tristan was gone, having bolted out the door before Fred had even finished speaking.

'There goes a brave, foolish man,' he said to the space Tristan had occupied only seconds before, and weaving on the spot only slightly.

* * *

Out in the street, the cold air stung Tristan's cheeks. A harsh juxtaposition to the warm, cramped interior of the bar he'd just left. The town bell was tolling right on midday. Where to go now? He hardly considered himself safe in any of his usual haunts. Perhaps he could find Kattala. He hadn't seen her yet, and she was likely to be up to her impressively tall neck in something odd and obscure and difficult to find.

His moment of hesitation had cost him, however, as he spied from the corner of his eye, a figure leaving the Three Broomsticks that made his blood run cold. Short, brown hair, and a bright yellow jumper that didn't _quite_ match his own.

'O, Tristan!'

 _Shit._ Fred had failed. He'd fallen in the line of duty. Without looking back, Tristan bolted down the nearest side street, pretending for all he was worth like he hadn't heard the shrill calling of his name.

He shoved unceremoniously through the thinning crowd as he went – uncaring for the disgruntled cries and rude gestures left in his wake. Faces flashed past on either side. Older students with skins full of Firewhiskey and worse; the younger with pockets equally crammed with all manner of sweets and jokes and an enjoyment far more innocent. He even thought he saw a miserable-looking Holly Brooks, on the arm of an older Slytherin he didn't quite recognize.

Each twisting alleyway he turned down became darker and tighter. He could hear the footsteps shadowing him. Tiny, short strides struggling to keep up with his long, purposeful ones. His breath came sharp and fast.

As he rounded a final corner, he swore. His curse echoed off the narrow walls with a sibilant hiss. There was no way out. A tall, rickety fence barred his path ahead. He could hear Chloe's footfalls echoing on the cobbles behind him. She'd be upon him at any moment now, and there was nowhere to run-

' _Psst!'_

Tristan spun towards the sound, his eyes wild. A shadowy doorway was cracked open. Eyes glinted out from the darkness. A hand extended, gesturing him in. The movements were clipped and hurried; mirroring his own urgency.

He barrelled in through the door without asking any questions. Surely, nothing could be worse than the fate he had been about to endure. The cold air of outside was cut off by the gliding of oiled hinges. The room was low-ceilinged, and dimly lit. Bare, polished floorboards lined the floor, and faded wallpaper decorated the walls. It was surprisingly clean for such a back-alley hovel. The floorboards gleamed with polish, there was no hint of peeling in the wallpaper, and a single candle-lit dining table laden with food and drink and set for two sat perfectly aligned in the centre of it all…

He turned to greet his rescuer, and his mouth fell open in shock: long, red hair; bright green eyes; and a smile that chilled his heart.

'I hope you didn't think I'd forgotten about you, Tristan,' purred Lily Potter with a devilish grin.

* * *

Still in the Three Broomsticks, Fred had to elbow his way through the packed floor with all three drinks in hand. A small kerfuffle was breaking out in one corner where the fourth-year Slytherin, Bridget O'Flynn sat looking miserable, likely consoled less by her friends than by the dozen or so empty tankards lining the table before her. She was currently in the process of falling off her chair, despite her friends' best efforts at keeping her upright.

It was with great effort and no small amount of cursing that Fred finally made arrived back at their table. Only to find it vacant. Chloe had somehow seen clean through their ruse, and disappeared without his noticing. He looked around for a moment, suddenly alone in the crowded pub with an excess of drinks. It wasn't long before his eyes found blue-hair – he _knew_ she'd been looking at _him_ – and with a shrug to nobody in particular, he made his way over, a broad grin beginning to spread across his face.

* * *

Hogsmeade was generally considered a peaceful little village. Odette was of a mind to change that, as the minutes continued to creep by. She was going to strangle James bloody Potter when he showed up.

The ones gathered around her had changed the tune of their whispers now. Excited speculation had taken on a different tone. A sort of morbid fascination at the scene playing out before them. Odette Mansfield – being stood up? It would be a rumour to sear through the halls of Hogwarts hotter and faster than anything she could recall. As if in anticipation, she felt a rising heat, high on her cheeks.

If there was one thing Odette did _not_ do, it was embarrassment.

She straightened, doing her best to disregard the eyes boring into her from every angle. She could save some dignity by walking away now, at least. Not looking so pathetic as to stay here waiting for hours on end.

She took one step up the street – to a chorus of muted gasps – and then the crowd parted. There, strolling down towards her as if the whole town waited upon him, was James Sirius Potter with his jagged half-smile, and purposefully-unkempt hair.

She wanted to fume and rage and berate him for what he'd done. Did he even _know_ what he'd done? One did not leave Odette Mansfield waiting! But she couldn't; there was something odd going on inside her chest. A sort of free-falling sensation that was spreading a kind of warmth and relief out to all of her extremities, making her feel light and airy and completely out of sorts. Instead, she found herself smiling.

He was wearing a shirt, after all. James Potter – the master of ill-fitting t-shirts and trousers with holes in the knees had put on a collared shirt – and by Morgana, Odette was a sudden and strong believer that he ought to do so more often. He had the sleeves rolled up past his elbows, despite the chill air that was, by now, starting to seep into Odette's very bones. Not that she'd ever let it show.

'So nice of you to show up,' she told him after disentangling form their welcome embrace. The spectators were all a-dither with their terribly-concealed ogling.

James tried to hide the moment of slack-jawed, unthinking appreciation of her appearance by running a hand through his hair. But she caught it. She always did. Inwardly, she smiled. Two can play at that game, Potter.

'Shall we?' he asked, nodding towards Madam Puddifoot's. 'Bit cold out.'

Odette's lips quirked in the hint of a smile. _Don't give him the satisfaction._ He hadn't earned it. Not yet. She gestured to her own outfit. 'Darling, you're preaching to the choir.'

'Right. Yea.'

She proffered her arm to be escorted in. 'A novel idea might be to roll down your sleeves.'

'Can't,' he told her. 'Was polishing my broomstick. Got wax all over one of them.'

Odette couldn't hide her shock, and uttered a small, startled sort of hiccup. 'Is that some kind of a euphemism, O rose of my heart? You know I might be able to help you with that.'

James appeared to have momentarily swallowed his tongue. _Good._ Point to Odette. She'd not let him keep the upper hand.

'Nothing so crass, dear. It simply helps clear my mind.'

Scores of eyes now were watching them as a well-dressed witch held open the door, smiling politely to the couple.

'So you were criminally late to our date because you decided a few scuffs on your broom couldn't wait until later?'

Odette saw it happen as she was speaking. An instant change in his demeanour. As they crossed the threshold, out of the pale sunlight and into the dim interior, a shadow that was nothing to do with their environs passed across James' face. His shoulders became hunched and defensive. His voice distant.

'I was… I had to say goodbye to a… a friend.'

Odette shot a glance across at him. He wasn't meeting her gaze. She knew better than to push. Not now, maybe not ever. They both had their own private lives, their own secrets. She could think of a few right away that she'd rather James never find out. One, in particular that ate away at her every single day they were together.

'I was about ready to murder you,' she said instead. Her tone was light and airy. She said it with a smile as they were directed to their table – the best seat in the house. The entire place was newly arranged so that everyone else could get a look at them. Just how she'd requested it.

'That sounds… unpleasant.' James' smile was making its way back.

'Leaving me stranded, half-naked, in the cold. With half of bloody Hogsmeade looking on. I would have made it slow.'

'Perish the thought.'

'Your broomstick would have been the first to go. I'd have tied you up and made you watch me splinter it.'

'Well, now I'm not sure whether to be horrified or aroused. Maybe a little of both?'

Odette had to hide her surprise by turning to that the waiter. _Point to James._ Oh, how he'd changed at her fingertips over the past years. He flashed her a wink when they made eye contact once more. _He knew._ He was playing the game, now. No longer a victim of it.

Oh, but this was shaping to be a fun adventure, indeed.

* * *

James' first Butterbeer lasted all of about three seconds before he'd downed the entire contents. He let the warmth of it settle in his stomach and radiate outwards to his limbs, bringing with it a sort of calming sensation. It was a feeble barrier against the whirlwind that was his racing heart, but it was something, and it allowed him a modicum of calm and comfort; a moment to think, rather than simply be dragged along by the tempest that was the will of Odette Mansfield.

Merlin, but she'd had him shooting from the hip the moment he'd arrived, dragged up into her scandalous, irreverent maelstrom. Even taking part in a way that set her eyes to burning and her smile to glowing in a way that was so addictive he couldn't help but try for one more quip. One more sly comment filled with sultry portent, and thinly veiled clothes-tearing potential that seemed to fuel her – and by extent himself – like some kind of drug.

She smiled at him across the table from over her own glass. She was drinking a pale, straw-coloured substance that could have been wine or juice or some kind of Firewhiskey – or anything in between. Her hair was elegantly curled, and hung free down over her shoulder. That newly-familiar smoky blonde a frame for her honey-dark features. Her lips left a perfect red stain on the rim of her glass, and for some reason James was fixated on it.

'So, James, how do you like it?' she gestured to the room around them. As if anything else here mattered.

'It's perfect,' he answered, before catching himself and actually looking around.

Dozens of small tables were arrayed around the room, every one crowded with young couples. Candles burned low in delicate chandeliers spun from glittering crystal. A path of rose petals led up to their table, right in the centre of the room. The dim light was warm, and intimate, and engendered a close sort of whispering that forced all to lean in towards one another, in a way that prompted the touching of hands or maybe more.

'It does feel a bit like a stage,' he corrected himself.

It was not hard to see, if one simply looked past the petals and flowers and subtle, sensual music.

They were perfectly in the middle of the room. A clear space around them, afforded to nobody else. Tables radiated out from their own, with couples positioned, not for the sweeping views of the countryside outside, but to better see developments between the two of them. As his own gaze swept around the room, that of the other denizens hurriedly flitted away, skittish and furtive and oh, so obvious. As if everyone in that room was gathered to watch what would play out between them.

'And shouldn't it? We are who we are, after all.'

'But why do _they_ all care?'

Odette swirled her glass in one hand. James nearly jumped in fright as he felt something up against his leg – her foot, tracking slowly up towards his thigh. There was certainly a ripple that passed around the room. But James was more focused on stilling his racing heart and reigning in his mind from the places it was intent on heading.

'Because, James, it is _us._ And no matter how they wish it, they can never _be_ us. And so their pathetic lives as scavengers revolve around feeding off of our scraps, of thriving in our leavings. Of hanging on to the coattails of better people in the hopes that something that makes us _us,_ might rub off on to them.

'Or, failing that, wishing that we should crash and burn in a way so spectacular that they can derive a sort of perverted, morbid pleasure from it, and tell their nobody friends how glad they are that they would never be like us. Despite it being their most desperate and sordid desire.'

'What is it then, that makes us so special?' James asked, signalling for another drink of his own. The path Odette was tracing up his leg was burning like icy fire. He'd need more than one Butterbeer to deal with that.

'Look at us; the whole school knows our names. The day James Potter started at Hogwarts, there wasn't a soul within her walls that did not know about it. And I saw you. I watched you mount the dais with clear eyes and a straight back. Everyone in the room was whispering your name, but it bothered you not at all. You had no time for them, yet you thrived on the fame. And I could see, then and there, that you were just like me.'

Her breathing was fast and heavy. Her chest rose and fell in a way that gripped James' attention and refused to let it go. Her foot was in a place that had James frozen – part terror and part ecstasy. And party because he'd seen just how sharp the heels on her stiletto shoes were.

'So, one and the same, you and I…' James reached out his hand across the table. Odette took it tightly. Black-painted nails dug deep into his skin from her needy, hungry grip. He'd never considered them kindred spirits. He'd thought them polar opposites, for years. But perhaps she had a point, in a way…' Is it the Quidditch then? Every time we win, we're heroes.'

She pulled him closer, so that they were mere inches apart across the table. 'The hero of Hogwarts,' she whispered in a low, sultry voice.

'But that just takes practice. Anybody can do that.'

'Anybody can. But _everybody_ can't. And so it is that we alone are the ones raised up.'

'But why _us?_ I came from fame already – everyone knew my father. I didn't earn anything. And you…'

James trailed off, suddenly aware of how little he really knew about Odette outside of Quidditch, school, and that burning, hungry light that shone in her eyes when she looked his way.

Her answering laugh was musical and mystical and painfully sensual, all at once. James was leaning across the table involuntarily if only to get a little closer to the heady drug that was her presence. 'Suffice to say, I had my own head start.'

'Then is it really the same?'

Odette smiled. She grabbed James' other hand, and pulled him forwards so that their foreheads touched. Her breathing was heavy and loud in James' ears – before he realised the rushed, ragged sound was his own. Her eyes shone clear and blue and James saw within them, that there was no doubt that they were each other's worlds in that moment.

'The measure of a person isn't taken from where they begin, James, but where they finish. And look at what each of us has made of ourselves in only four short years. Think of where we will go from here, _together_. Look around at the dozens of people hanging on our every move. Look at where we have come from. At what we have separated ourselves from. For there will ever be a great divide. An _us_ and a _them._ So long as we set ourselves apart as the Chosen, and they are content to clamour along in our wake. We will never be like them, in the same way that they can never be us. And while they use us for their petty entertainment, we, too, will use them to build our lasting legacy.'

James was drinking in her words by now, the captivating allure of her closeness was overwhelming. His drink had been delivered, and was now standing forgotten. There was nothing else of import. Around him, though, he could feel the attention of scores of onlookers. Could sense the held breath that balanced the entire room on its edge. And, he realised, it irritated him. These people were taking away from his moment with Odette. Each stealing a little of it for themselves until there was little enough left for the two of them to share.

It was annoying, really. Perhaps Odette wasn't far from the truth, after all.

'Do you want to get out of here?' James asked in a low, measured voice.

There was no hesitation in Odette's response.

'I've never wanted anything more.'


	14. Surprise

If there was any one thing that James had learned from a year and a half of Care of Magical Creatures classes under the tutelage of Rubeus Hagrid, it was to always be prepared for anything. His father and uncle had peppered him with stories of rampant Hippogriffs and some terrifying concoctions called Blast-Ended Skrewts before he'd even taken up the class, and James hadn't _quite_ been able to dismiss their dire warnings as typical scare-the-newbie ribbing.

Their tales had been confirmed over the past eighteen months, as Hagrid's love of the dangerous and possibly insane had led him to trot out a series of magical beasts that lesser men would have been afraid to even touch, let alone scratch endearingly behind the ears. Whether it was furry and bitey, slithery and venomous and bitey, or scaley and, well, probably bitey, James had patted, poked, prodded and coerced them all.

And so it was a touch perplexing when, one chilly late-autumn afternoon, James found himself leading a group of his friends in the proper grooming and feeding etiquette for a herd – a _flock_? – of Mooncalves.

A rare day moon was out – the pale disc of a full moon clutched tightly to a feeble existence high in the heavens. The awkward little creatures were absolutely fixated on it. Every so often it would disappear behind one of the high, scudding clouds, and they would mewl and whine pathetically, whereby the students would have to feed and soothe them until it was visible once more.

Hagrid had – in an unprecedented move – managed to instantly endear himself to almost every single female student in the class, who absolutely adored the fluffy little creatures, and couldn't stop fawning over them and making all kinds of uncomfortable cooing noises.

Kattala absolutely _hated_ them.

'Stupid, moon-worshipping devil-sheep,' she called the one that their group was tending to, as it sidled up to her, looking for food.

This was only the lesser of two surprises awaiting them this lesson as, with an unannounced rustle and a curse that nearly earned him a crossbow bolt to the face, Fred Weasley – missing for three days since their Hogsmeade weekend – showed up from the depths of the Forbidden Forest, completely out of the blue.

Their entire group instantly forgot about the Mooncalf – which they'd had no _real_ interest in anyway – and turned to face Fred with slack jaws and bewildered expressions. He looked as if he'd just trekked the length and breadth of the country wearing the very clothes on his back. And fought at least two mountain trolls along the way.

'I haven't slept in four days,' he croaked, stumbling forwards and collapsing onto a bench. It appeared he hadn't eaten, either, as he dove for the small sack of Mooncalf feed and began tucking in, apparently unfazed.

The little Mooncalf didn't take to kindly to this, and yipped uncertainly, nuzzling at James' hand as if to prompt him into rescuing its food from this new vagabond.

James, ignoring the animal, ran his other hand through his hair in disbelief. It wasn't unheard of for Fred to disappear for a day or two, if he was working on something _particularly_ insane to try and ruin their lives with. But this looked a little more… drastic.

'Where the _hell_ have you been?'

'Blue hair,' Fred rasped, around a mouthful of pellets. The words meant nothing to James, but Tristan gasped like he'd just been punched in the gut.

'You jammy git,' he roared with laughter, reaching over to clap Fred on the shoulder. The act nearly knocked him clean off his seat.

Fred managed a shaky smile, and – pellets now gone – collapsed flat onto the bench while he filled them in on a raspy, shortened version of his most recent misadventures. Well, at least, those that he could remember.

It appeared that during the blackout, which began sometime _after_ finding a secret, underground pub guarded by a pair of Hags and generally barred to students, then swimming naked in a river that fed the Black Lake, but _before_ regaining consciousness dressed only in Slytherin undergarments inside the attic of a stranger's house, Fred had lost his cohort of the mysterious blue-haired Slytherin girl and her friend, and had been left alone to wander back to the castle, intermittently hounded by visions of dragons descending from the sky to eat him.

Perhaps the oddest part of it all was that James was certain he couldn't recall any blue-haired Slytherin students at all…

'And did you manage to survive?' Fred eventually asked in Tristan's direction. Fred had pulled a large, leafy branch over his eyes as if looking at the day's pallid sunlight was too much for him.

'I had an awful time, no thanks to you,' Tristan grumbled, looking absolutely devastated he'd missed out on Fred's long weekend of debauchery. 'But at least I managed to survive Chloe Swann. I was rather suspiciously… rescued.'

'And which fair maiden was your saviour?' James asked with a sly grin, pushing the irritating Mooncalf away from where it had started nuzzling its wet nose into his fingers.

For some reason, Tristan looked absolutely mortified, and began blushing profusely – most uncharacteristic. But their conversation was interrupted as the spurned Mooncalf – having given up on garnering James' attention, toddled over to try the same trick on Cat. Naturally, she wasn't having a bar of this, and the minute it started suckling on her unattended fingers, she bent down and gave it a taste of its own medicine by popping one of the poor creatures own ears into her mouth.

Terrified and confused, the poor animal yipped and squealed, dashing over to hide behind the tails of Hagrid's moleskin coat, looking out at the group with large, baleful eyes. Cat simply scowled back as if it had been the most normal exchange in the world.

'And on that note,' Hagrid called out over all of them. 'We might wrap this one up. James, Kattala, Tristan, could yeh stay back a mo' after class?'

There was a round of groans and heartfelt farewells among _most_ of the female members of the class, and a pair of Hufflepuff girls even tried to smuggle one out with them. Thankfully, this wasn't Hagrid's first rodeo, and he promptly plucked the bundle of flailing legs from the girls' satchel bags as they shuffled past.

James waved farewell to Fred, who shuffled off slowly towards the castle, and some much-needed rest, groaning as he went like a particularly ginger Inferius.

The rest of the class filed out past James and Tristan, and Cat with her mouthful of Mooncalf hair. As they came abreast, Caspar Helstrom and his group of disagreeable Ravenclaws shot James a dirty look. Caspar jerked a thumb over his shoulder at where Hagrid stood, doing a poor job of trying to balance looking nonchalant with herding a score of excitable Mooncalves.

'More secret meetings with Hagrid, Potter?'

'I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about.'

' _Really._ The pair of you are about as subtle as a stampede of angry Erumpents.'

'And just what has your keen and penetrating Ravenclaw mind decided that we are up to?' Tristan shot back. 'Organising an illicit Mooncalf-smuggling ring, are we?'

For good measure, Tristan also started rolling up the sleeves of his robe.

Caspar, however, remained unfazed. 'We know you're up to something Potter. Your little fan-club with Renshaw and the Freak is finished. No more special treatment for you and your weirdo friends, now. This will be _my_ school, when the Ministry takes over.'

'The Vampires will run this school before you do,' Cat chimed in. James wasn't sure that it was helpful. Caspar mostly just ignored her.

'Better witches and wizards than your father died so that he could take the glory of killing Voldemort, Potter. I won't let you do the same.'

' _Better_ witches and wizards stood aside and left it up to my father to kill a Dark Lord before he'd even left school.'

Caspar scowled then, James had evidently hit a nerve. Dannil Pyke, his right-hand man pulled him back and took his turn leering at the group. 'Your little friend ain't coming back, Potter. She's gone. For good.'

With that, the pair of them stalked off, joining up with the rest of their group. Cat stuck out a hair-covered tongue at their backs as they retreated.

Once all the other students had left, Hagrid gestured them to a small way off, out of the penned clearing into which he'd finally managed to shepherd the mooncalves. A hazy golden light was filtering through the tree tops, illuminating drifting particles of dust that gave off a smoky, burnished glow. The air – already cool – was becoming quite frigid this late in the day, as if the sun was already ceding to the impending winter, hugging close to the caps of the distant mountains as if in fear of the coming cold months.

James pulled on his coat as they huddled in close. Hagrid towered over all of them except Cat, who squatted rather patronisingly to join down on James' level.

'Thought yeh might want ter know,' Hagrid told them in a whisper as gruff and subtle as gravel sliding down a hillside. 'I found this in the forest a few days back.'

He rummaged around in his myriad pockets, producing a candle, a pair of giant callipers and a wicked looking hunting knife before he finally found the item in question. He held it out before all of them. It the late afternoon glow, it caught a ray of dappled sunlight and shone with a warm, golden hue, like a kind of holy artefact proffered to a group of avid zealots.

'Well bugger me,' Tristan breathed, in awe.

'D'you think it's one of theirs?' James asked.

'Oh, I don't think they are going to be friendly', Cat sulked.

Before them Hagrid held a giant claw – a talon – large enough so that it was not dwarfed even in his gigantic hands. It bore a wicked hook, and a point that looked razor sharp. It was covered in countless scratches, gouges and marks that spoke of years of hard use. A dark substance was caked on to the tip. It _could_ have been mud. But none of them were so naïve. There were a series of splintered cracks near the base, and it ended roughly, as if it had been torn free by force. Hagrid passed it around the three of them, and they studied it with intent.

'Might be it picked a fight with something that fought back,' Hagrid explained, as Cat measured the talon against her palm. It was longer than her hand fully extended. 'Found it in a clearing deep in the Forest. Centaur territory. I don't usually go in that deep, but I saw no sign of 'em about. Then this…'

'So you think it attacked a Centaur?' James asked.

'Aye, I reckon. Found a broken arrow an' a few tail hairs covered in blood. Reckon it's chased the rest of 'em deeper into the Forest.'

'Does this mean they'll help us, now?'

'Not a chance. Be a cold day in Hell before Centaurs look for help from Wizards. 'Specially after that carry-on in the Lake a couple years back. Nasty business, that. Entire coven of Merfolk…

'No, likely this will only make them testier. But might be that the beast here has driven them in deep enough so that they won't be a worry to us.'

Not having to sneak through miles of Centaur territory seemed like a positive to James, but Tristan wasn't so convinced. He was scowling, and kicking up small scuffs of dirt with his feet.

'So, instead of passing through swaths of Forest controlled by Centaurs who _might_ kill us, we now have to run the gauntlet through the hunting grounds of this this that definitely _will_ kill us. This way seems a little more… _stabby.'_

'Aye,' Hagrid nodded, tugging on his beard uncomfortably. 'If it's too dangerous, yeh don't have to come-'

'No- we're in,' all three chorused together.

'When's the next adventure?' Cat added eagerly.

'Soon,' Hagrid assured them. 'Just need to find a time. Have to be at night. Found a couple nosy Ravenclaws snooping around me hut the other week. Tried to set Sirius on 'em to shoo 'em off, but all he wanted was ter lick the little blighters.'

'Be careful, Hagrid. They seem to have it out for us. And you.'

'Aye, I will. Ain't me first rodeo, never you mind. Now off with yeh, afore someone gets too suspicious. The walls have ears, these days. Shady type of people getting' bold without Renshaw around to keep things in line.

'Off with yeh. James, you'll have Quidditch practice tonight, best get ready fer that.'

'As if we'll need it to beat Hufflepuff.'

'Oi!' Tristan shot, giving James a shove. 'Careful now. I reckon we might have a bit of a surprise in store.'

James dismissed him with a wave of the hand and the three of them turned to head back up to the castle. Cat began telling them in great depth about a time her mother faced down an Albanian mountain Yeti with only a frying pan and a length of shoelace. So engrossed in pretending to listen were James and Tristan, that they didn't even notice the pair of figures crouched behind the bushes a short way off from where they had left Hagrid behind.

That following weekend Gryffindor was to face Hufflepuff in Quidditch. James – along with much of the team – figured themselves to be favourites after Hufflepuff had lost one of their better players – their Beater – to injury in the match before. Even though both teams were still undefeated, James couldn't find it in himself to think of them as a threat.

Nobody had told that to the Hufflepuffs though, as they had turned out in force to support their team, and were in the process of rocking the very stands in which they stood with riotous cheers and singing, while the Gryffindor team huddled in the changing rooms below.

'Blimey,' Fred swore, as a little rain of dust fell from the ceiling onto his shoulder. 'By the sounds of them, you'd think they'd already won the Cup.'

'It's been a while since they were good,' shrugged Carina, as she brushed said dust off her captain's armband. 'Ava has put a good team together. They're just happy to have something to cheer about.'

'For now,' James smirked.

The air among the team was light and casual as they made their final preparations. Even Al looked a little less green than usual before a match.

'So how fared the King of Gryffindor with his doting subjects last weekend?' James asked, referring to Al's three-way Hogsmeade date with his Ravenclaw fan club.

'Fine,' Al shrugged, straitening a twig on the tail of his broom. 'We went to the Three Broomsticks and had a drink. They tried to sneak us in to the Hog's Head but got caught, then we went out to the Shrieking Shack. They said they knew a secret spot from the far side where you can get a better look and nobody ever goes there, but I'd promised Rose I'd meet her back in town to check out the Quill sale at Scrivenshaft's, so I didn't go.'

'You utter, colossal pillock,' James laughed.

'What?'

'Bet they were a bit miffed at that,' Fred grinned. He'd manage to pull his playing jersey on backwards, and was involved in an arm-waving struggle to right himself.

'Well, they did seem a _touch_ put out…'

James clapped his brother on the shoulder and smiled, shaking his head. It wasn't long ago that he'd have been equally as clueless. It had only taken Odette Mansfield three years of relentless pursuit and painfully non-subtle hints before he had caught on to what it meant to have girls interested in him. It was a lesson that Al would have to figure out on his own.

James took a seat on the benches that lined the room and set about adjusting the straps on his Chaser's glove – the gift he'd received from all of his friends in first year. He'd never gone a game without it. And before every match he'd take a minute to run his thumb over the stitching where each of them had embroidered their names, and ask them for good luck.

After four years, though, it was beginning to show the wear. A deep gouge cleaved through the spot where Holly's name had been. And Rain's was now little more than a faint silver smudge.

But before he had time to ask any of them for guidance, a thin, keening sound cut through the roar of the Hufflepuff crowd – Declan Hawksby blowing his whistle.

'Shit,' Fred swore, his head lost beneath his jersey. 'Already?'

Carina checked her watch, and her eyes popped. 'Oh, bother,' she squeaked in alarm.

The team scrambled to grab broomsticks and line up to file out onto the pitch. Fred – despite all of his efforts – ended up with his jersey back to front yet again. Several pf the leather straps were still loose on James' glove, and Carina – whose armband was aligned with perfect precision – had spent all of her time on that and forgotten to tie up her hair. She had to settle for jamming her wand hastily through it and hoping that would hold.

Across the field from them, emerging from their own change rooms with impressive precision, Hufflepuff were the picture of readiness and focus. They filed out with brooms over shoulders at a precise angle. They fanned out behind Ava Adams, their captain, and – at a signal that was the barest twitch of her wrist – they swung their brooms out as one and prepared to mount up.

It was impressive in its own right, but James – along with Fred – were not gawking at the discipline of the pressed and ironed, golden-robed Hufflepuffs. It was the figure stood just to the left of Ava who had their full and utmost attention.

' _Tristan?!'_

James broke rank and started walking dumbly across the pitch towards his friend. Carina hissed for him to get back into line, but he shrugged off her feeble attempts. He felt Fred staggering along next to him.

Neither quite seemed able to piece together what was occurring before them. Tristan was here. On a _Quidditch Pitch._ In Quidditch robes. But he didn't play Quidditch. That couldn't be right, could it?

A shrill call sounded from behind James – Declan Hawksby blowing his whistle to send them back to their team. But both ignored it. The roar of the crowd was taking on a strange, buzzing tone. Individual whistles and jeers could be heard. They slid off James as he continued to stumble across the pitch.

'I told you I'd have to take up this stupid game,' Tristan called across to them. 'Just to beat you two at it so you'll shut up once in a while. Nobody wants to hear about you polishing each other's broomsticks in the changing sheds all day.'

'You…' James sputtered. An odd sensation was taking over. He felt a sort of betrayal. Quidditch was _his_ thing. Tristan shouldn't be allowed to do it, too.

His stupefied march stopped only when Declan Hawksby rammed his face in front of the two boys, blowing on his whistle in their ears so loud that they both winced back, snapping out of their fugue state. He handed them both penalties for unsolicited approaching of the opposition team, and sent them marching back to the Gryffindor ranks, tails between their legs, and slapping themselves for the lapse in judgement.

Unwaveringly bright and cheerful, Ava Adams managed to slip in an excitable wave, and mouthed 'Hi James!' in his direction. All she got was a sheepish smile in return.

Thanks to James and Fred's antics, Gryffindor then started the match twenty points in arrears – as Ava slotted both penalty shots past Carina with a pair of beautiful South Surrey Spinners that broke first left, and then right. The overwhelmingly black-and-gold-clad crowd roared and shook the stands, all before the rest of the balls had even been released.

It was to a round of boos and jeers that James finally took off when the match began. His episode of stupidity was stuck in his mind, and thus he was distracted off the start, too slow to dart in on his lightning broom and grab the Quaffle like he usually did. Instead, Ava Adams beat him cleanly to it, and he managed only to fly face-first into her hip as she took off down the pitch. The blow sent him spinning off, dazed. He bit his tongue and tasted blood, saw it dripping down on to the handle of his broom from his mouth and nose.

Another round of boos could just be heard underneath the Hufflepuff's riotous cheering as Ava manage to score a third goal, and Gryffindor were suddenly in a thirty to nil hole.

'You suck, Potter!'

'Can't even Chase a Slytherin properly!'

'Snake-kisser!'

James shot off up the pitch to await the Quaffle from Carina's restart. Lynch and Abbey Fisher both were shooting him frustrated glares already.

His head was so far from being in the game. Tristan's appearance had rattled him. Tristan hadn't even _done_ anything yet. He hadn't had the time, and yet James was still putting all of his focus into working out if he felt mad or upset or betrayed about it. Or if he even cared at all.

He took the pass from Carina and signalled for a push up the flank that Tristan was patrolling. He was playing a little too high, perhaps six or seven feet above where he should have been circling. And his turns were those of someone not yet accustomed to the deft manoeuvring required of a Quidditch player. James felt that should be able to get past him with some swift vertical change-of-direction plays.

And that ought to teach him to think he could just _show up_ and beat James and Fred at Quidditch.

Abbey pushed forwards, staying up high. Tristan's focus locked on to her – she was riding at about his level above the stands – an easy target for him. Especially when James heaved a pass upwards to her and she rocketed off up the pitch.

James watched as Tristan got a tunnel vision focus on Abbey. Just the mistake James had been pushing him into making. He was calling for his teammate to send one of the Bludgers his way. James stayed steady, in position beneath Abbey. Preston Lynch was off to her left, near centre field. All going well, the Quaffle should end up in his hands with a nigh-open shot on goal.

Even better, that Tristan was out of position. He was hovering too far to the right, as a Bludger obliged in rocketing up towards him. The crowd tensed – James heard the sibilant intake of breath – as Tristan raced to make last minute adjustments. He wasn't even looking at Abbey anymore, oblivious to her flight path – which was currently taking her very close to his position. He wasn't going to have time or space to swing his bat.

James grinned; the goal was as good as theirs.

Right up until a last second, unprecedented and _clearly_ accidental burst of speed from Tristan threw him directly into Abbey Fisher's line of flight. He still had no clue as to where his opponent was, managing only to reach out and swing wildly at the approaching Bludger.

His bat barely managed to graze it, and the resulting shot veered off harmlessly outside of the stands. But it wasn't the Bludger that did the damage, as Abbey Fisher careened straight into Tristan's suddenly-outstretched arm which flashed out directly before her. The move collared her around the neck and the Quaffle tore free from her grip. James had to dash in and catch her as she lolled about atop her broom, dazed from the blow and in danger of falling.

And who was there to capitalize, but Ava _bloody_ Adams, scooping up the Quaffle and scoring her fourth goal of the match up the other end.

There was nothing subtle about the jeers from the Gryffindor stands, now.

'Get off the pitch, Potter!'

'Piss off to Slytherin!'

'You suck more than Mansfield in a broom closet!'

The last one, James took umbrage to, and as he was helping Abbey to the sideline, he tried to shoot off up to the spot in the stands where the older Gryffindors who'd made the remark were seated. It took Fred and Preston Lynch both to hold him back.

'Cool it, James,' Fred urged.

Zanthia Fisher, brought on for her injured twin sister, joined the huddle and hissed at the lot of them with a furious glare. 'What is _wrong_ with you? You're playing like a bunch of first-years on Cleansweep Threes. Potter, you look like someone has tied your tail twigs in a knot out there.'

'I dunno,' James mumbled. 'Head's not in the game.'

'Well get it there! Or else we're in danger of being blown out and looking like even bigger idiots than we do already.'

He nodded, rolling his shoulders in a sort of physical attempt to get the nagging annoyance of Tristan's appearance off of his back. James couldn't quite put his finger on _why_ it annoyed him so much, but it had certainly made it worse that Tristan had just made a big play without even bloody meaning to.

Quidditch was James and Fred's thing – it didn't seem fair for Tristan to saunter on in and beat them at it. They put hours of practice in on the pitch every week. Tristan, really, could barely sit a broom in comparison.

The team regrouped near centre-field. James signalled for a reshuffle of their positioning. Zanthia didn't have anywhere near the arm strength of Abbey – she was far more of an Enabler than a Finisher. So she and James would work to funnel all of the scoring opportunities to Preston Lynch, in a two-one formation, a reverse of their usual one-two.

'Good luck, James!' called Ava from across the pitch. 'You're doing great!'

As it turned out, her unflappable positivity was a touch more grating when you weren't on her side.

James caught the Quaffle off of Carina's restart. He signalled Lynch to push up the left of the pitch, and offloaded a pass to Zanthia as Ava began to pressure him. Zanthia looped a gorgeous no-look pass behind her back to him again as he cut over to her opposite side. She managed to draw in a second defender _and_ tangle herself up with Ava who had been pressing James on defence, freeing up James and Lynch for a two against one. James didn't miss the casual elbow Zanthia threw in Ava's direction, either.

Between them, James and Lynch managed to easily score, with Lynch rocketing a shot in through the centre goal hoop, with heat on it that spoke to the entire Gryffindor team's frustrations.

Forty points to ten. It felt like hours but had really only been minutes. Gryffindor were finally off the mark.

'Nice one, Zee,' James waved to where Zanthia hovered, now wearing a bloodthirsty grin.

He and Lynch high-fived in mid-air.

'Well played guys, great goal!' Ava called out.

 _Shut up, Ava,_ James thought.

Almost too late, and after a disastrous start and at the cost of one of their starting Chasers, Gryffindor had finally woken up. A Herculean effort would still be needed to bring themselves back into the match. That they had been unprepared and disorganized coming into the game was painfully obvious. It had appeared that none of them had been willing to take Hufflepuff seriously, despite their team steadily improving every year James had been at Hogwarts. Without the fiery, unbridled passion of Ryan O'Flaherty, or the rough-and-ready, prepared-for-anything guidance of the MacDougal twins, the Gryffindor team looked rudderless, and Carina had thus far been unable to right the ship, pinned to the goalposts as she was by her position as Keeper.

Thus it would be up to James to lead his battered and bruised Chasing cohort to keeping Gryffindor in the game. And to Fred and Ash to help them do it. Whilst, above it all, Al circled the pitch like a hawk, his eyes never still, his body coiled tight, poised and ready to spring into action. His movements were mirrored by the golden-clad Hufflepuff Seeker who soared even higher again.

Hufflepuff scored off the restart again. This time it was Ava's turn to set up one of her teammates for a goal. She was everywhere on the pitch, both on attack and defence. The crowds chanted her name, they waved banners dripping in black and gold paint and singing her praises. She was their Hero; if Al had been the Prince of Gryffindor, she was the Hufflepuff Queen, their ruler of the skies.

But James would be damned if he'd roll over and let her cheery bloody smile take over the match. At fifty points to ten down, the game had become one of survival. To not let the opposition encroach on that one hundred fifty point lead that would sound the death-knell for the crimson-clad Gryffindor fliers.

He and Zanthia flicked rapid passes back and forth to one another, using their lithe frames and knife-sharp manoeuvrability to cut through the Hufflepuff players. But ultimately, they were not used to playing together – Zanthia being restricted mostly to the reserve squad – and a pass mere inches too wide had James stretching. He felt the Quaffle glance his wrist, and a felt a snap as the buckles on his Chaser's glove popped open. The glove fell, jerking his fingers back and sending the Quaffle down with it towards the pitch below.

He saw the leather bracer hit the grassed turf far below, but had no time to retrieve it as none other than Ava Adams was there to swoop on the Quaffle and tear off back up the pitch, frustratingly scoring yet again with a breathtaking rendition of the Welsh Wagtail move – a stuttering feint to the left that sent Carina wide and left two hoops open for Ava to easily score.

Sixty points to ten, in favour of Hufflepuff. The crowd was now a nearly consistent roar. A thunderous rumble rolled over the ground as they all stamped their feet in excitement.

Carina's pass to restart the match was a little firmer than it needed to be. Frustration was mounting for all of them. The heat on it stung James' now-unprotected palm. He faked a long throw to Preston Lynch, which set one of the Hufflepuff Chasers minutely off-balance. It was a subtle shift in the way he levelled his shoulders, but James processed in an instant that he had been about to break right. Driven by instinct more than thought, James shot to the opposite side, and left the defender wallowing and stationary in mid-air.

Lynch was open, and waving for the pass. James signalled for Zanthia to run an interfering line on Ava. The dark-haired girl revelled in the tooth and nail scuffling, as each tried to force their way past the other. For someone so happy and bright, Ava certainly wasn't afraid of pulling any punches on the pitch.

James reared up to throw, but before he could, a lightning streak of black shot from the periphery of his vision and collided with Lynch's outstretched arm. He spun away with a curse, cradling a throwing hand that now hung limp and useless against his chest.

Snarling his own vulgarities, James tucked the Quaffle and tore up the pitch, weaving underneath the outstretched arms of the final defender. Fred appeared like a wraith at his left shoulder to fend off a sure-hit Bludger, and James slid an Umbrian Undercutter shot through the hoops that spun so viciously it skidded right through the hands of the Hufflepuff Keeper.

There was a barely perceptible dent in the roar from the Hufflepuff onlookers.

In the end it was their defence that kept them in the match. With Lynch's hand possibly broken, and Abbey still unable to recall even what she'd had for breakfast, their chances of scoring were evaporating, and they began to slowly bleed points to Ava's relentless attack.

But as they were down one hundred thirty points to forty, and with the feeling of the match slipping away from them, Al silenced the entire stadium for the space of a heartbeat by plummeting towards the pitch in a breakneck dive.

But it was only for a heartbeat.

The entire stadium exploded in noise as the Hufflepuff Seeker joined the pursuit. From a shallower angle, he tore in opposite where James sat frozen, watching. Al's descent was nigh on suicidal. A vertical line to the tiny flutter of gold that gleamed just off the turf at halfway. James tried to follow the glint, but soon lost it in the pallid, overcast light. Al however, had eyes made of keener stuff, and a slight adjustment brought him back on line.

The pitch of the roar began to change, as the crowd realised Al had the better angle. He was going to plaster himself all over midfield to do it, but he was a clear shot to get the Snitch first – the Hufflepuff's tactic of flying high above Al had cost him precious time and metres – and when it came to Seeking, everything was a matter of seconds and inches.

Movement from the corner of James' eye – Tristan was lining up a Bludger. But it was surely too late, Al was too close to the Snitch. The only danger left to him was whether or not he could pull out of the breathtaking dive. The game was all but theirs.

But, James watched in horror as Tristan wound up and let loose on the Bludger – his most perfect hit of the day – and Merlin, how it flew off the bat. He'd hit it harder than anyone on the pitch that day. Harder than James had even thought possible. The Bludger was a streak of black death as it tore across the pitch. Al had come to the same conclusion as James, and previously dismissed Tristan's play. But the tensing of his body showed James he knew he'd been mistaken.

There was a sort of whistling noise that sounded gleeful just moments before the Bludger hammered into Al in a teeth-jarring collision. Splintered wood and robes and limbs flew everywhere, crashing to a heap on the turf below. The golden-robed Hufflepuff Seeker swooped in and finished what Al had started, and James' cursing was lost even to his own ears as the stadium erupted into levels of noise unprecedented.

They poured out onto the pitch. In gold and black and any colour under the sun. They carried streamers and flags and, soon, their teammates high above them.

Before joining them, Ava Adams flew past James. 'Well played James, super match! You'll get us next time!'

 _Shut up, Ava._ James waved her off with a half-hearted shrug. It might have been all the more irritating because she was _actually_ genuine in wanting to share her joy. Bloody Hufflepuffs.

He hovered in the air a long time, waiting for the crowds to disperse. The surface of the pitch was a trampled, churned mess by the time they left. Litter and golden ribbon made picking through the remains for his precious glove a nightmare. If someone had trampled it into the turf…

He'd waved the team off not unlike he'd pushed Ava away. They had staggered into the change rooms, or off to the Hospital Wing in a couple of cases, wrapped tightly within themselves. Knowing, each of them, that their own brash dismissal of the Hufflepuff team and their lackadaisical attitude in their preparation and entering into the match had cost them the game. United in that they all blamed themselves for the loss, but somehow unwilling or unable to share even that small comfort. A team divided in defeat.

' _Accio_ stupid glove thing!'

James paused at the intrusion, waiting until the sound of careful footsteps across the uneven pitch brought Odette Mansfield to his side.

'Well, I tried,' she shrugged. 'Never say I don't do anything for you.'

James tried to stifle the small smile. He was perfectly content wallowing in his self-serving, indulgent pity.

'Come to gloat?' he mumbled, stomping on a caricature of a badger urinating on a lion sketched onto a gold-trimmed banner.

A wind from across the lake stirred Odette's unbound hair. Strands danced coyly across her face. A couple stayed, stuck to the dark paint decorating her lips.

'Sulking is unbecoming on a man, James. Leave that to lesser boys.'

'It isn't fair,' James mumbled again. He bent down to overturn another discarded placard, but again to no avail. 'Tristan doesn't even _like_ Quidditch.'

He was busying himself so that he didn't have to look up at Odette. For a long time, she contented herself to walk alongside him in silence, gliding over the churned earth as if it were a ballroom floor. Eventually, as James tossed aside a black-and-gold scarf in frustration, she laid a hand on his shoulder.

Perhaps it was the sheer scale of the gigantic Quidditch pitch that amplified the relative closeness of the two figures who stood, alone, at its centre. That gave James the sensation that they were the only two in the whole school, perhaps the entire country.

At least, the only two that mattered. He reached up to brush away one of Odette's stuck strands of hair. She smiled, and spoke.

'In my second year I made the team over three other candidates. All of them sixth year. Second years on the starting team come around once in a blue moon. I was – as I always am – unprecedented. Anybody who knew anything about Quidditch knew that I was destined to be a star.'

James wasn't entirely sure just where she was going with this.

'But do you know what was on everybody's lips, all through that preceding summer? All throughout that year? Not the flowering of a generational talent, no. It was that James Sirius Potter was starting Hogwarts. And then it was that he had made the Gryffindor junior squad. And every little thing you did, down to every time you bloody farted.

'To me, it felt like nobody cared about the hours of practice I had put in. About the things I put my body through to be the best. The sacrifices that _I_ had made. I earned their gratitude on the pitch every few weeks, or their ire. I was but a flash in the pan, but you, James. _You_ were the raging inferno.'

There was something there, in her eyes, as she spoke those words. That sort of avid rapture undercut by deep desire that he had seen across the table at Madam Puddifoot's. She clutched his hands and pulled the two of them close.

'And what did I do about it, this sudden upstart? This challenge to my supremacy? Why, I went out there and flew the best Seeking year of any second-year in history. Caught more Snitches than any had before me. I was singular in my excellence. Because it was not they who mattered, James. It was only me. And now, it is only _us._

'We are the inferno now. Everyone else will come and go. Their world and their minds and their deeds are small and insignificant. It can only be people like us that make a true mark upon it. And so know that they will fade to ashes whilst we burn on. So fight it by being the best you can, because you are greater than it.'

James smiled as they drew close, but pulled back the moment before their lips touched.

'And so, if I'm following your model, I ought to pursue and seduce Tristan relentlessly over the next three years until he finally becomes worn down and gives in? Somehow, I don't think _either_ of us would go for that.'

Odette stepped back abruptly, her face a mask of faux-anger. 'Worn down? _Worn down?_ James Sirius Potter you collapsed into my arms when I deemed you suitable as if the air I breathed provided you with life itself. The only thing that was _worn down_ was my standards.'

Her lips were pressed into a thin line, and her arms were crossed in a way that was making it difficult for James to maintain eye contact. Of course, she knew exactly what she was doing. And what it did to him.

'Whatever helps you sleep at night,' James mocked with a sly smile, looking off into the distance and ceding the point.

And just like that Odette Mansfield had done what none other was capable of – dragging a bitter James Potter out of his dark reverie. With their perverted mind games and the kindling of a belief that had long lain dormant and buried that maybe, just maybe there _was_ something special about him. And that perhaps that wasn't something that ought to be suppressed.

A dangerous belief indeed for one as keen to prove himself as James Potter. And one that, like her own presence, was heady and addictive and all-consuming. So it was that she led him away from the pitch, match and glove and ill temper all forgotten. The sun was setting at their backs as they strolled up to the castle hand in hand, and their shadows stretched out long and dark before them.


	15. Ocean

The darkness of the room smothered James' sight. It was like a blanket, thick and oppressive, and draped over everything. He fumbled blindly with arms outstretched. Each step was tentative and soft. The sound of his own breath echoed loudly off walls he could neither see nor feel.

Rising above it all, was a primal fear that threatened to consume him, yet he couldn't quite put his finger on the source of it. It rose from deep within his breast, and howled in an animal nature. He wanted to back himself into a corner and snarl and snap. It caused every sense in his body to be cut on edge. Teetering, waiting for something. For the end.

Suddenly, movement in the darkness. Instinctively, he rolled to his left. His body didn't work in the way he thought it should. Elbows and knees cracked unforgiving tiles. Something dark and sinuous punched through the spot he'd just been occupying, with force enough to have skewered him if he'd not moved.

It wailed now, that fear within him. Without knowing _how_ he knew, James knew exactly what that _thing_ was. He could hear it again, a metallic keening sound, building to a fever pitch. He pushed himself up and ran. He knew not where, only that he needed to be as far away from _it_ as possible.

The sound of winding metal gears sent James diving to his left again. Air buffeted him from the force of the blow, but again it had narrowly missed. Light glinted off a metallic-like carapace of the long, sinuous device. It recoiled back past him as he stayed frozen, its end sporting a vicious, needle-like tip crackling with black sparks and lightning.

It wanted him, James knew that much. It wanted to tear him apart, to penetrate every single layer of his life and rip it away from him, one by one. He knew that if he let it get him, it would ruin him, leave him a burned out husk. If it left anything at all.

He found himself up against a wall. He ran a hand along it as he jogged now, fear overcoming caution. He could hear the winding gears and keening metallic sound that preceded another strike. An end to the wall forced him to turn right angles. Then again. Light from somewhere, barely enough to illuminate his surroundings, outlined the maze he now found himself in.

He didn't look back, only ran forwards with his heart in his throat. The metallic _wheee_ sound rang out from everywhere, and James screamed in an unfamiliar voice as it punched through the wall only centimetres in front of him. He tripped and fell, sliding beneath so as to avoid touching it. Blood flushed into his mouth. Shaking arms pushed him up and he sprinted onwards, casting a lone glance backward to see the serpentine shape shaking and emitting a sound that could have been laughter.

The moment he returned his gaze forwards, he was blinded by sunlight. He yelled out in pain, his voice tore at his throat and sounded wrong to his ears. Looking down, his cry became one of dismay, as he found himself stood atop a precarious bridge made of bricks, barely wide enough to fit both feet side-by-side.

It was so narrow, that nowhere was there more than a single brick across. He wobbled and teetered, buffeted by a wind that seemed to be summoned by his very fears. Down below, he heard a low _whump_ and cried out in alarm as the metallic serpent burst forth from the earth. With another gleeful _wheee_ it punched into the dangerously thin wall atop which James stood. He felt the blow shuddering throughout the construct. It reverberated into his own chest. Without thinking, and driven solely by fear, James ran.

He could see the end in the distance. Little more than a door opening to nothing, suspended in the air above the far side of the bridge. The calm surface of a lake spread out beneath him now, but it didn't dissuade his pursuer. Blow by blow, it began tearing at the wall, and each time it hit, the wall took a little longer to stop shuddering from the damage. James stumbled and wobbled and nearly fell more than once. His footing was never still now, waving around in the wind, so badly damaged was it. A steady rain of bricks into water below told him the creature, the _monster_ was gaining.

The portal was tens of metres away, and then mere yards…

It was less than three feet when the wall gave way beneath James. With the sound of a revving engine that James could only describe as gleeful, the great, winding, metallic serpent brought down the entire wall. James fell, hundreds of metres towards the lake below. The scream that tore from his lips ripped at his throat. He lost sight of the monster in his wild, buffeted fall. Bricks collided with his body. His arms windmilled as the water approached ever faster, unwavering, and all-consuming.

At the last moment before impact, James caught sight of his own terrified reflection in the choppy surface of the lake. The water was rough and so he couldn't quite be sure, but it might have been a fan of long red hair that surrounded him, and the eyes that looked back in terror were the blue-green of the sea.

In his bed within the Gryffindor boys' dormitory, James Potter jerked awake with a cut-off cry. He flung his arms wide, tossing his blankets from his body, fumbling for his wand and looking around in wide-eyed terror. His chest was heaving, sweat soaked every inch of his frame. His breathing was jagged and hoarse. But no dangers leapt from the shadows to get him. The room was lit in a pale blue light from the burning locket that hung about his chest. He noticed how hot it was to touch, and pried it off of his skin. A small, puckered weal marked the spot where it had lain.

Slowly, and with shaking hands, James rolled over and retrieved his blankets. By his bedside, he righted the mirror of Foe Glass that he himself had made. By the time he got to it, hidden by his duvet as it had been, the dark shapes that had been swirling within were gone, and so he saw only his own reflection – definitely _him_ this time – looking back, with jet black hair slicked to his forehead with sweat.

Recalling the dream was like trying to hold water in a sieve. Something had been chasing him. But _was_ it him? He couldn't be sure. He recalled the feeling of his body being all wrong. All elbows and knees and movements that weren't right. And right at the end, he thought he'd seen…

There was no chance of any further sleep for the night. His heart was racing in his chest. The sweat across his body was cooling him, but the spot on his breastbone where the locket sat still radiated heat. It had lessened its glowing now, more of a faint shimmer. The mark it had left him was like a small sunburst upon his chest.

Mind whirring, James stalked across the room. Mercifully, the rest of his dorm-mates slept the sleep of the dead, so he had disturbed none of them with his flailing.

Placing a hand over his mouth so that he couldn't scream, James leaned over and firmly shook Clip Wallace awake.

'Errngh- mrrmff.'

Clip Wallace – who loved his sleep and whom James was fairly sure had the ability to fall asleep on his way between classes – was not overly pleased at having his nightly rest disturbed. James held a finger to his own lips and slowly pulled back his other hand once Clip had gotten over the worst of his flailing.

'What the _hell,_ James?' Clip hissed. At least he was making some sort of effort to keep his voice down.

'Need some help,' James whispered back.

'I will murder you.'

'C'mon Clip, you're the only one that can do it.'

Flattery, evidently, was the answer, as Clips sleepy grumbling abated long enough for James to explain his plan.

'And you're sure this can't wait until morning?' Clip asked.

'I'd forget the dream by then. We have to go _now.'_

'Alright, alright. Don't get your wand in a knot.'

James was practically hopping from foot to foot while he waited for Clip to get up, don his dressing gown, and search for a lost slipper underneath the bed. He had Clip bundled up beneath the Invisibility Cloak before he could even complain that his pyjama pants were on backwards.

On the way to their destination, James attempted to help recall the dream by recounting it to Clip. This didn't amuse Clip overmuch – all the talk of dreaming had him nodding by the time the pair arrived at the entrance to the Ravenclaw common room, not to mention James' story changed slightly every single time he'd retold it.

Clip was also complaining of sore legs by the time they reached the entrance to the Ravenclaw common, as the awkward shuffle the two had to manage beneath the cloak meant that they were both sort of frog-stepping up the tight, winding staircase. And while James had never been to the Ravenclaw common room in person, he felt sure that someone ought to have mentioned to him in passing the approximately thirty seven flights of stairs it took to get up there.

Finally, when they arrived at the landing, they were faced with a flat, featureless wall, adorned only by a heavy brass door knocker, carved into the worn and faded shape of an eagle. _This_ was the reason James had brought Clip along. Logic and puzzles was his domain – James couldn't afford to be left fumbling at the door as the last dregs of his dream faded from memory.

But, as it turned out, the knocker was soundly asleep.

James reached out a hand from the safety of the cloak and prodded it in the beak, garnering no response. A soft, gentle snoring was echoing back down the stairwell they had just trekked up.

Clip rapped it between the eyes with his knuckles. James tried using the handle to knock, but found it stuck fast. They hammered, prodded, shouted and wailed upon the unflinching object. Finally, taking a leaf out of Cat's book, James leaned in and licked it.

'Ergh, ugh, get away, disgusting boy! How dare you deface my learned countenance!'

James was too busy brushing the metallic taste and suspiciously gritty pieces off his tongue to be offended. Clip took the lead.

'Er, sorry Mister Raven… Or is it Mister Eagle? I never quite understood that-'

'Do not question our brilliance, polite floating head!'

James looked down to confirm that the pair of them apparently consisted of one arm and two heads floating in the middle of the corridor.

'We just want to get inside,' he asked as calmly as he could.

'Where there's Gryffindor heads, there's bound to be the rest of a Gryffindor not far behind!'

James and Clip shed the Cloak, holding open their arms.

'Back, foul beasts! What trickery is this?'

'Er… magic?'

'Right, yes. Right you are.'

'So… can we come in?'

'Absolutely not. Two Gryffindors at three o'clock in the morning is simply a recipe for disaster.'

'We just want to see our friend,' Clip pleaded. 'She-'

That had been a mistake.

'She? _She?!_ Of course it's a she! You deranged madmen, out with you, out I say! Be gone, lest I call all manner of portraiture and statuary down upon your godless souls. The virtue of fair lass shall not be sullied this night!'

'No, no, no,' James was practically squawking by now. 'It's not like _that._ I need her help. Quickly. With this.'

And, against his better judgement, James held Rain's locket up for the beady-eyed eagle to study. He was silent – thankfully – for a long time.

'How came you by this witchcraft?' the insane edge to its voice had finally been stifled. But worryingly, replaced with a tinge of fear. 'This is dark and cold and bottomless. I am afeared to even touch it.'

'It was a… a gift,' James told the truth. 'But I need to give it back.'

'Aye, I know it. And she to whom it belongs. Say, you would be spawned of the great Harry Potter, would you not? Come closer so that I might see.'

James obliged, feeling rather quite daft leaning in eye to eye with a brass door knocker.

'Do you believe in prophecy, child Potter? Of omen and portent?'

'Err…' James suddenly panicked – was this the question to enter?

'A most astute response, indeed. I shall say only this: the last time a Potter entered Ravenclaw Tower, with a mystery and a powerful magical artefact involved, the blood of many students was shed at the end of the path he was taking. Do you think it wise, then, for me to make this same mistake again?'

'I'd question your wisdom entirely if you couldn't tell the difference between me and my father,' James shot back.

The eagle was quiet for a while, and then dipped his head, as if nodding. 'That is a satisfactory answer, I believe. You may enter. I pray only that this path does not mirror that trod by your father, and I urge you to consider whether the students of Hogwarts might not be better off it that locket were to never again be reunited with its owner.'

James chose to largely ignore this ominous warning; he was too busy being ecstatic about being let in to the Ravenclaw common room. Clip, on the other hand, did not take quite so kindly to this development.

'So you hauled me out of bed at three in the morning to watch you argue with a metal bird, and then I _didn't even need to be here!'_ he hissed as they made their way into the room beneath the cover of the Cloak.

James made a mental note to never interrupt Clip from his sleep again. 'Look on the bright side, mate. We're going to see Cassie. I thought that might cheer you up.'

'She is going to _murder_ us. You do realise that, right? I'm going to be killed by a five foot whirlwind of death.'

'Re- _lax,'_ James urged, as they crept through the common room proper. Large, glass walls on one side of the room opened up to panoramic views of the mountains, capped as they were by the kiss of argent light from a gibbous moon upon their snowy peaks. The other side was floor-to-ceiling in books, stacked and crammed every which way possible. A number of chairs and tables and poufs decorated the room at random, designed for sitting and reading and doing other such boring Ravenclaw things.

The girls' dormitories were in a small tower buttressing the main castle. It was reached via a narrow, bridge-like corridor with a mind-bending glass floor that afforded a view of the dizzying drop below down to the rocky lakeshore. James and Clip both boldly decided to not look down, and instead scurried quickly across with their eyes firmly fastened on the door they were after.

James nudged the door open, not even daring to poke an arm outside of the Cloak. His plan really hadn't developed this far ahead; he'd been almost positive he'd be turned away at the entrance to the Common Room. Clip had raised a fair point about their grisly deaths should they be discovered, and so James was currently running through all manner of preventative charms in his head, right up to the point of casting a Body Bind on Cassie and dragging her out to the Common Room to explode in a more secure area.

The pair made certain to dodge all manner of clothes and quills and books that the Ravenclaw fourth years left scattered about their room. Cassie's bed was at the far end, near the window. There was a conspicuously empty one next to her. James paused at it for a moment, raising an unbidden hand to touch at the locket he wore. Did it know?

But the bed was neatly made, the covers untouched and unruffled. The lack of a trunk adorning the foot and the too-neat arrangement of the pillows and blankets was a painful reminder of the lingering absence of its would-be inhabitant.

They reached Cassie's bed without any drama and, considering he'd already had success with the method once that night, James decided to reach out of the Invisibility Cloak and place a hand on Cassie's mouth while he shook her awake.

However, the second he broke cover from the Cloak, a noise fit to wake the dead blared through the room, shattering the peace and serenity of the sleeping inhabitants. James found himself thrown upward, with a sensation like being punched in the stomach by a large and angry Hagrid. The wind was knocked clean out of him, he felt himself collide painfully with the ceiling, and a second _thud_ announced Clip in a similar situation adjacent to him. But he couldn't so much as turn his head to look and confirm. His entire body was frozen.

Meanwhile, in the room below, the dozen or so girls began a mixture of screaming, cursing, and firing off a nasty volley of spells at anything that looked at them sideways. The sound was hammering James' ears so loud he thought it might wake up the entire castle. His neck and ears were burning from embarrassment, which peaked when one of the room's inhabitants finally glanced upwards and noticed two sheepish looking Gryffindors pinned to the roof above Cassie's bed.

'Well, shit,' James managed to croak.

Sometime later, after many threats of evisceration, and promises of grisly death, James and Clip were released, to face down an irate Cassandra Featherstone in the relative privacy of the Ravenclaw Common room.

It was at about this point that James began to reconsider the brilliance of his plan.

'What in the name of all sacred knowledge were you _thinking?!'_ Cassie whisper-shouted at the pair of them. She'd sat them down on a pair of poufs in the corner of the room, and was using the opportunity to, for once in her life, tower over them as she gave them a dressing down like only Cassie could. 'Is there a single brain between the whole of Gryffindor house? Clip, I'd have expected better of you-'

'But I-'

'Enough! Sneaking into the girls' dormitory – the _girls!_ – at three in the morning like a pair of… well, idiot Gryffindors! What did you think would happen? What did you expect to achieve? No- don't answer that! You utter, utter pillocks!'

Cassie didn't curse often. There was a small part of James that was quite proud he was about to be the one to help her achieve that feat. But it was only a very, _very_ small part.

'I ought to report you to my head of house, and your head of house, and, Merlin, I'd report you to Renshaw, too, if she were here! I'm completely disappointed in the pair of you and frankly, appalled to even associate with you.'

The rant was made slightly more awkward by the fact that Cassie kept having to avert her gaze from James.

'And for Merlin's sake James, _why can't you put some clothes on?!'_

James looked down to the small pair of shorts he wore to bed that were little better than boxer shorts. 'It's what I sleep in,' he shrugged.

'It's ghastly,' Cassie hissed. 'Not to mention wearing that to my dormitory at three in the morning is incredibly inappropriate!'

'No it's not,' James argued. 'Clip is here to supervise.'

James looked over to Clip for support, only to find his friend fast asleep and snoring softly, his head resting upon the rather pointy looking spine of a book.

Some backup.

'Argh! You two are the _worst!'_

'Wait, Cassie,' James urged, as she made to stalk off back to bed. 'I didn't _only_ sneak in here to show you my sleeping shorts-'

He had to physically lunge towards her and grab her arm to stop her taking off then.

'It's about this.'

With his free hand, he looped the chain of the locket over his head, and pressed it into Cassie's palm. She was torn between looking at it, and the sunburst scar on James' chest. As James had known it would, her burning curiosity won out, and she accepted the locket hungrily, her avid gaze enraptured as she turned it over slowly in her hands.

James took the opportunity to guide her over to a pair of armchairs and – while she was still too enthralled to be angry – tell her what he could remember from his dream, and what he thought it meant.

She sat, staring at him for a long time after he finished speaking. The locket dangled in her hand, the golden chain draped between her fingertips like a gilt-lined spider web. Her mouth was working soundlessly as she fumbled for words to say.

'Do- do you think she's in trouble?'

James nodded. 'I think that's what it means. And I think we ought to do something about it. The locket is the key. It _has_ to be.'

'I, I don't know…' Cassie said, looking away out the window into the inky blackness. 'Rain had terrible dreams all the time. Maybe it _is_ the locket, but it might not be showing you anything. Maybe that's just part of what it does, it affects dreams…'

'And leaves burn marks like this?' James gestured to his bared chest. 'I'm damn near a match for Rain now, and I can _still_ feel its heat, Cassie. Something's not right. _Trust_ me.'

'I don't know, James… not to mention I'm still _furious_ at you for bursting in here.'

James had thought that the prospect of discovering what had happened to Rain might have won out over Cassie's anger.

'We can try some spells from that new book you bought in Hogsmeade. I know you've been dying to try it out.'

'Well, I _suppose_ I have…'

'And we'll have to write down lists of anything we discover.'

'I _do_ like making lists…'

'And then we'll have to catalogue it all.'

'Oh my, that does sound rather fun.'

'And then probably file it all in a binder. With colour-coded parchment.'

'Oh James, stop it. Now you're teasing.'

'And then, we're going to have to do some… _research.'_

'Ok, I'm in!' a little colour had risen on Cassie's cheeks, and she was fanning herself with one hand. What a strange girl.

As she scurried off to get her book, and cool off, James prepared a little area for them. He pushed a few armchairs out of the way, cast a few of the secrecy charms he knew to stop their voices travelling, and began pacing, going over in his head the events he could still recall from the dream. The actual happenings were beginning to fade, but the sense of terror, and the feeling of being alone was still cold and bitter and strong in the back of his throat.

James took one look at Cassie upon her return and started shaking his head.

'Nope. No way. Not a chance. I am not wearing _that._ '

Cassie was stood at the edge of James' circle, the gigantic book tucked precariously under one arm, while her other hand waved around a bright pink dressing gown. With tassels.

'And I am _not_ doing this while staring at your half-naked body, James Potter.'

James gave her his best stare-down for a long minute. But there was no beating her. She just didn't _blink._ All he received was one quirked eyebrow, and the damned dressing gown thrust under his nose. He sullenly resigned himself to donning it.

It was unbelievably small, the belt was straining to reach all the way around, and it still left most of his chest and stomach bare, while simultaneously somehow making his sleeping shorts ride up at the back. It was, without a doubt, the worst thing James had ever worn. He got the feeling Cassie was only doing it to punish him. She was looking far too pleased with herself.

Embarrassment over, James placed himself out of the way while Cassie prepared. She placed the locket in the centre of the circle, with the book next to it. She pushed James all the way out to the far edge. She adjusted the angle on a few of the chairs, and began sprinkling little handfuls of black powder in a radiating pattern out from where the locket sat. She rolled up the sleeves of her own dressing gown, which was a much more reserved pale blue. James had already argued and been beaten back for swapping three times by the time Cassie declared herself ready.

'What do you need me to do?' James asked, eyeing the arena, the markings on the floor, and the streak of black powder Cassie had now smeared across her face with just a touch of trepidation.

'Stay out of the way,' Cassie growled, hefting her wand and turning her attention to the spellbook.

James, figuring this was probably the best outcome for all of them, proceeded to comply, and tucked himself away in a corner behind Cassie, where he could at least peer over her shoulder and see what she was up to. He shoved Clip – still snoring away contentedly – a little farther from the circle. Just in case something exploded.

He watched as Cassie pored over the book, tracing little runes and symbols in the pile of black sand between her and the locket as she did so. The book wasn't written in any language James recognised, but Cassie's lips moved soundlessly as she skimmed through the text, presumably following instructions. Every so often, she shot her wand hand out and worked a series of complex movements over top of the locket where it sat, glowing faintly with that deep blue light.

The minutes stretched on and on. James dared not look away even to check his watch, so fixated was he on Cassie's movements, the little whispered incantations she uttered, and the increasingly complex shapes she was marking out around the locket and – as James now realised – mirroring in the movements of her wand.

James couldn't tell if anything was changing – had the light from the locket grown brighter, or was that the approaching day that was beginning to light up the room? Tiny droplets of sweat were beginning to fall from Cassie's brow, muddying the pile of sand before her, and drawing forth a string of curses James had never expected to hear from the lips of Cassandra Featherstone.

Eventually, with her hands stained almost entirely black, and soot-marks marring the majority of her visage and robe, she gave one, final flourish. There was a brief flash of blue from within the depths of the locket – this time there was no mistaking it – and then, nothing.

James watched as she slumped to the floor at uttered a plaintive little sigh of defeat.

'So…'

'It failed, James. I- _I_ failed. I couldn't do it.'

James moved in to sit down next to her. When he saw the tears brimming in the corners of her eyes, he took her hand and lifted her chin up.

'It's not the end, Cassie. We'll figure it out, together. I'm sure we just-'

He was cut off, as he'd reached over to retrieve the locket with his free hand. The moment he touched it, he was overcome by the sensation of suddenly being dunked in ice-cold water. He heard Cassie's hiss next to him, as a blinding light overwhelmed them both. Cassie's grip grew painfully tight as they both gasped and spluttered and shivered at the shock.

When the light faded, James sprang to his feet, dragging Cassie with him. She clutched tightly to his arm. They found themselves, no longer on the floor of the Ravenclaw dormitory, but on the edge of a wild and rugged coastline.

Rough, coarse sand stretched as far as the eye could see. Slate grey waves hammered and battered at the shore, throwing themselves desperately ashore as if fleeing something dark and sinister far out in the depths. Wild white caps dotted the surface of the ocean, and a cutting gale tossed handfuls of dust and finer sand about, tugging at the few scrappy tufts of weed bold enough to grow in such a forsaken place. Great hunks of rotting ice were the only break in the flat, grey scenery. They dotted the shoreline like landed behemoths, weeping steady trails of glacial water back into the sea that never ceased eating away at them.

The first thing James noticed was the cold. Or rather, the lack of it. They should have been _freezing._ Except he wasn't. He wasn't really anything, now he thought about it. And then he noticed, down at his feet, the runes and shapes that Cassie had etched glowed golden against the sand. Together, they took first one step, and then another. The ground seemed flat and smooth and soft beneath his bare feet.

Then suddenly, as they approached the edge of their circle, the scene stuttered. Just as a wave crashed into the shore, the Ravenclaw common room returned once more – dark and peaceful and serene – and then they were back to the coastline, and the wind was howling so loud that Cassie had to shout to be heard.

'W-Where are we, James?'

'I don't know. Are we inside the locket? Is this a memory?'

'I- my spells were only supposed to reveal any Enchantments upon the locket. Not… not _this.'_

James nodded, surveying the scene. They seemed trapped by their golden circle. To stray outside of it was to risk losing the vision, or memory, or whatever it was. But he couldn't think what the locket could possibly be showing them. This appeared to be the most desolate and isolated coastline he'd ever seen.

'Look there!' Cassie shouted, squeezing his arm and gesturing out into the waves.

There was a disturbance growing beneath the water that had nothing to do with the weather. A shape was moving about, just beneath the waves, heading slowly towards the surface. For what it was worth, James readied his wand. Though what use it might be in this pseudo-dreamworld he had no idea.

He felt Cassie's body tense, and then heard her gasp as the figure broke the surface of the waves.

All around them, the world was cast in shades of grey, but they watched as the first burst of colour appeared. And it was painted a bright, rose gold.

James' hand fell uselessly to his side as he watched Rain step out from beneath the waves, as if she were merely walking up a flight of stairs. Her long, strawberry-blonde hair was plastered to her head, and ran free in great, sodden lengths down below her waist. Her clothes were little more than tattered rags hanging limply from her form. They were torn and ripped, exposing bruised and bloodied flesh beneath. Blood dripped from her as much as water, and she left tiny, red-stained footprints on the sand as she walked. Even from the distance, James could make out the wicked black weal on her skin from the incident with the Heart. It had begun to spread up her neck, tendrils of the sickness decorated the pale skin of her throat.

James watched as she took a step and stumbled, collapsing to the ground. Cassie made to run to her, and James had to hold her back.

'Cassie, no! This isn't real.'

'How do you know, James? She's hurt. We need to help her!'

'We can't.'

James gestured to where Rain lay, no more than fifty feet from their position. Trails of bloody water were soaked up by the sand and the waves, scrubbing away the evidence of her suffering. If she lay there much longer, they'd take her away with them, as well.

But next to her outstretched arm, laying forgotten now that she had fallen, was a lump of jagged blue crystal, nearly as large around as James' balled fist. He didn't know just _how_ he knew – perhaps it was due to prolonged exposure with the locket himself – but he was certain that that stone was the very one which now lay in the locket upon the floor of the Ravenclaw common room.

Footsteps behind them, and James and Cassie both wheeled on the spot. A trio of imposing figures approached. They wore long cloaks with stiff, high collars. Despite the obvious cold, their sleeves were rolled up. All three had their wands drawn. Behind them, back the way they had come, a streamer of smoke rose toward the sky and was tugged and teased by the howling winds.

'Steelhearts,' James swore, as he noted the blood-red emblem on the breast of their robes.

'Rain, get up!' Cassie cried, trying again to make a break for her friend. James had to wrap his arms around her waist to restrain her. The wind and waves washed over Cassie's shouts as they became more desperate the closer the Steelhearts approached.

Feeble movement, and – for the barest of moments – it seemed Rain rose her head in their direction. Then her eyes moved past them and focused on the Steelhearts, who were fanning out with their wands drawn. All of them focused on Rain.

Rain pushed herself slowly up onto shaking legs. Her feet were tattered and bloody and ruined. One leg of her trousers was torn entirely free, the other was merely ragged streamers of cloth hanging loosely over her calf. One hand now clutched the Stone in a death-grip. There was no sign of her wand in the other.

The Steelhearts barked something at her in a language James didn't understand. She responded in kind, without hesitation. She readied her feet, and scrubbed at her face where a gash leaked blood into her left eye.

Then, without warning, the Steelhearts charged. They rushed in over the uneven terrain, wands raised and firing all manner of spells in Rain's direction.

' _No!'_ Cassie screamed.

But, to both of their surprise, she needn't have bothered. With a twitch of her wrist, Rain called a great wall of water forth from the raging ocean. It leapt to her defence, soaking up the barrage of spellfire like a great, churning shield. Before the Steelhearts had time to react, she threw her arm forwards and sent it rushing toward them.

The towering cascade of water reared up five, ten times as high as James was tall. It took on a frosty blue hue deep within its bowels, and James watched the foremost jets crystallise, the moment before they impacted with the Steelhearts. Two of them raised hasty shields in time to weather the brunt of the titanic force, but one was a heartbeat too slow and James and Cassie winced as he was skewered to the ground by no fewer than a dozen giant spears of ice. Cassie huddled in to James as the stricken Steelheart's choking and rasping indicated that his death was a slow one.

The remaining two Steelhearts changed tactic, circling around to achieve a better angle of attack, and make Rain defend on two fronts. She lashed out at one with another tail of water, but he was ready, and swatted the blow aside with his wand. His return fire exploded a massive crater right at Rain's feet, and sent her tumbling through the air. James gasped as a wink of blue indicated the Stone was flung free, and he watched it arc through the air towards the second Steelheart, approaching Rain's immobile form with a victorious smile on his face.

Again, it was a mere flick of her wrist, a tiny movement the overconfident Steelheart did not see, which caused the ankle-deep water through which he waded to leap up in the blink of an eye and entomb him from head to toe. The look of shock on his face soon turned to blind panic as he clawed and swatted at his prison. He began clutching at his throat, and James and Cassie had to look away as his face began to take on a vile shade of purple.

When a watery, sodden thud finally sounded, they turned to see another lifeless form strewn upon the shoreline. Hardly looking out of place among the windswept debris that littered the coast.

The final Steelheart and Rain exchanged words again. Neither seemed happy with the outcome. Rain paused to cough up a mouthful of blood, and the Steelheart used the distraction to attack.

But Rain was in her element. And, as a roll of thunder so loud it brought James to his knees sounded, the heavens opened, and a great explosion at the feet of the charging Steelheart resolved itself into a gigantic pillar of water. But this time, it didn't drown the attacker. Instead, it encased his limbs, freezing them solid so that only his torso and head were exposed. No matter how he struggled and cursed, he could not move an inch.

Rain took her time straightening from where she'd been doubled over in her coughing fit. She wiped the last trickle of blood from her mouth with the back of her hand, and slowly advanced on the Steelheart.

When she was about three paces away, he finally broke, and his curses became pleading. Rain didn't so much as break stride, as the pitiable desperation grew in his voice, and true fear took over. James felt cold and terrified, listening to a man plead for his life. Rain didn't bat an eyelid. And with a movement quicker than James' eyes could follow, her hand shot out and she seemed to punch the Steelheart in the chest.

Except, that when she pulled back a streamer of blood followed her hand, the Steelheart sagged in his bonds, and Rain tossed something about the size of both of James' fists aside. It was soaked in blood and made a metallic clang as it bounced across the coarse, gravelly sand. It would have fit comfortably into the now-gaping hole in the centre of the Steelheart's chest.

Finally, Rain turned and bent down to retrieve the Stone from where it had fallen. With a final look that James could have sworn was right in their direction, she Disapparated with a crack that put the thunder to shame, and left James and Cassie both standing wide-eyed and slack-jawed staring at a sea they didn't know, on a coast they'd never heard of, pummelled by a downpour that couldn't get them wet.

Meanwhile, far out beneath the distant waves, flashes of pearlescent light flickered and burst. Something began stirring to life.


	16. Chill

It was, James believed, a grand oversight on the behalf of those responsible for building Hogwarts castle that nobody had decided to put any method of heating inside the greenhouses. Sure, as Clip had pointed out, all that fire around so much plant life was something of a life-threatening hazard. And he _supposed_ Cassie was right when she argued that without any means of ventilation for the smoke they'd promptly all die of inhalation, but as a howling northerly wind rattled the glass panes in their sockets, James wasn't sure he wouldn't rather a spot of consumption over the current biting cold.

Winter had arrived at Hogwarts. Early, and unannounced and thoroughly unwelcome. The vast majority of the school had been caught off guard by the sudden development, and as a result a thriving black market trade in winter coats and mittens had blossomed. The few clever souls who had possessed the foresight to plan ahead were selling even the rattiest of their garments for multiple Galleons, and the buyers didn't care whether the item in question fitted or not.

Case in point, James was currently sporting a long-sleeved muggle rugby jersey that might have fit Cassie on a good day, and bared his midriff rather unflatteringly to his classmates – not to mention the icy draft. Tristan had been seen sporting a garish beanie with pink-tasselled earmuffs and a stuffed bird on top, which squawked at unwitting passers-by most threateningly. Oddly, Professor Longbottom had banned that had banned that particular item of clothing from entering his greenhouse.

The burgeoning trade had stuttered somewhat over the past twenty-four hours due to two unrelated incidents: the Lenders – ever eager to make a quick Galleon – had tried to force their way into the trade by robbing a bunch of third-years of their entire wardrobes, resulting in no fewer than a dozen trips to the hospital wing for the poor, suddenly-naked souls. Secondly, and perhaps even more effectively, Fred had flooded the market with some original Weasley Snap-Jackets; jumpers which – the moment the wearer was unprepared – suddenly turned into a straightjacket more binding than a perfect _Petrificus Totalus._

The teachers were _still_ having to scoop up students left stranded in a hallway or bathroom or, once, a shady broom closet in a rather compromising position.

The market had dried up somewhat after that little debacle.

Which left James, who had packed eighteen pairs of socks – he just kept _losing_ them – and six cases of broomstick polish – one can never have too much – lacking a single suitable jumper and subsequently shivering so hard his teeth chattered audibly while they waited for their Herbology class to begin.

'James,' Cat suddenly asked, eyeing him askance. 'Can you please do this?'

And she held up her hands to cover the pair of wide, blinking owl eyes on her jumper, laying them across her chest in a rather… suggestive position.

'I mean, I guess so,' James shrugged, leaning over the table towards where Cat sat.

'Not on _me,_ you Horklump!' Cat squealed, nearly toppling backwards off her chair. 'We can all see, well…' and she gestured toward James' own chest.

James, looking down and seeing the issue – or rather, _issues –_ finally nodded his head. 'Ah, yea. That makes _way_ more sense.'

Before Fred could completely die of laughter, Professor Longbottom strode into the room, bringing with him yet another gust of chilly wind. James hugged himself tightly.

'Good afternoon class, please form into small groups and share a textbook among you. We'll be focusing today on the identification of edible wild plants – make sure you pay attention, this could save your life if you ever get lost hiking. Or are stupid enough to venture into the Forbidden Forest.

'And Potter, get rid of that ridiculous jumper. You look like you belong in the red-light district of Knockturn Alley.'

James frowned as he tugged at the restricting jumper in an attempt to remove it. It appeared that Professor Longbottom was still harbouring something of a grudge.

'Quickly, class!' barked the professor. He was wearing a pair of thick wool-lined dragonhide gloves, and a perfectly-fitting jacket. Though his breath curled and misted before him, he appeared completely unfazed by the chill. James couldn't wait to master a decent Warming Charm without setting his clothing on fire.

'Something's got the professor in a mood,' James muttered from the middle of a tangle of jumper.

'It's you,' Clip helpfully offered. 'It's always you. Cassie says he's always in a good mood for her class.'

James finally managed to extricate himself from the rugby jersey, leaving himself little more than his Gryffindor shirt to try and fend of the biting, chilly air. His teeth began chattering audibly. Professor Longbottom gave him a long-suffering look.

'Now, class, who is able to identify any of these plants?'

James frowned at the array of flora set out before them. There was a small, spiny bush with wicked thorns and gently pulsating purple berries the size of a walnut; a wriggly thing that looked all vine and no leaf which was decorated with what looked like bright blue chillies; something that just looked like a squat, mossy boulder that was periodically hiccupping up what looked like tiny black seeds, and a multitude of other weird, wonderful, and probably dangerous plants all vying for attention up the front of the class.

Emry Sameer's hand shot up, and he took the opportunity to lecture the class about the long vine-like one which apparently, when the chillies turned from blue to yellow, they took on the flavour and stench of week-old roadkill, and were considered a delicacy for carnivorous beasts the world over.

James happily tuned Emry out – he could barely hear him over his own rattling teeth, anyway.

'So tell us again about the vision,' Fred hissed from the corner of his mouth as Emry launched into a blow-by-blow detailing of the dozen different varieties of the chilli-vine and just which type of roadkill they most tasted like.

'I've already told you, like, six times,' James groaned.

'I can't believe you let me sleep through all of it,' Clip complained. 'You should have woken me.'

'After you nearly throttled me the first time I woke you? Not bloody likely.'

'You should hear the rumours you started,' Cat added unhelpfully. She'd managed to somehow procure one of the still-blue chillies and was sucking speculatively on the end of it. 'The Hufflepuffs think you were trying to smuggle Rain back into her dormitory. The Slytherins say you are having a secret three-way love affair. And some people are saying that Vampires were chasing you all through the castle, and they were the ones who left the suspicious markings on the common room floor.'

James frowned at that one. 'Really?'

'I made up the last one,' Cat whispered, beaming with self-satisfaction. 'Can you tell?'

'Caspar and his goons are going to be furious,' Fred grinned. 'Right under their noses. But they'll have no idea what you were _actually_ up to, and that will kill them.'

Any further discussion was interrupted by a resounding _crash_ and the whole class looked around to see a rather dazed and confused owl scrabbling for purchase on the sill of one of the upper windows. Emry made a put-out huff at having had his monologue interrupted.

Cat, being the only one tall enough to reach, let the owl in. It promptly stole the chilli still hanging out of her mouth and flew over to a frustrated-looking Professor Longbottom, who was scowling at the interruption.

The window Cat had opened was wafting a draft right down the back of James' shirt. He was beginning to worry about hypothermia.

'Listen up, class!' Professor Longbottom was frowning down at the note in his hands. James watched as he shook his head in exasperation. 'The Ministry of Magic – in their infinite wisdom – have decided that _now_ is the right time to issue a statement regarding their position on the uncertain situation surrounding our headmistress.'

There was an immediate reaction among the students. Heads turned, whispered conversations flared up all over the room. Professor Longbottom let the students speculate – and James share a worried look with his friends – before he continued with the Ministry's words.

' _Your Ministry of Magic acknowledges the unfortunate circumstances leading to the detention of ex-Headmistress Renshaw by our French colleagues. We empathise with the discomfort that this must cause, and have chosen to make this announcement to address uncertainties and clear the air for you, our friends, at the esteemed Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.'_

Professor Longbottom was practically rolling his eyes as he read the words aloud.

' _After some deliberation and discussion with our counterparts in the French Minstére we have henceforth decided to cease pursuing all diplomatic avenues for a resolution to this situation. We have faith that our French colleagues will provide justice in their decision if it is deserved, or vengeance if it is necessary._

' _We make this decision with a heavy heart, and so it is with grave sincerity that we must caution any rash action in this regard. For any effort to make contact or interfere with the proceedings in France will be deemed against the wishes of your Ministry and thus treasonous._

' _Furthermore, we understand that calm guidance is critical in tumultuous times, and so we are pleased to announce that a Ministry delegation is preparing the trip to Hogwarts to oversee Administrative and Managerial facilities within the school until such a time as a replacement for ex-Headmistress Renshaw can be found._

' _Yours Faithfully, Calantha Merryweather_

There was stunned silence all throughout the class. James and his friends all shared pointed looks.

'Well,' said Professor Longbottom. 'Fuck.'

There were a few nervous giggles throughout the room. Most were too shocked to speak.

'They're abandoning her,' James hissed. 'Just tossing her to the Giant Squid.'

'What's changed?' Clip wondered aloud. 'Did she confess?

'Why would she? She's not guilty!'

'I'm going to need more supplies to… _welcome_ these Ministry toffs,' Fred mused. 'A _lot_ more supplies.'

'Alright, enough!' Professor Longbottom barked. His scowl brought a blanket of hush over the last few drabs of conversation. 'Back to work. This shouldn't concern any of you, unless you're mental enough to be thinking about breaking our Headmistress out of French prison. Miss Lovegood, you seem to be ready to volunteer to describe the next plant for us. How about it?'

Cat, who James knew full well had been trying to sneak up under the cover of chaos to swipe another of those awful chillies smiled brightly and began telling the class that the strange mossy rock was, in fact, hiding something called a Ringjape, and the little black seeds it was spitting out were actually berries, meant to lure unsuspecting travellers with their sweet scent before it leapt out and ate their memories.

James happily smiled and nodded along, while, in the background, Professor Longbottom held his head in his hands in despair.

Cat's riveting explanation was interrupted just as it truly began to dip its toes into complete insanity by the arrival of another owl – this one flew comfortably in through the window Cat had opened – and landed on the table in front of James.

'Please, Mister Potter, make yourself at home. Order your mail. Shall I draw you up a sofa? I'm sure I can find you some pumpkin juice and a treacle tart if you'd like.'

'A nice hearth and some mittens wouldn't go astray,' James ventured.

Professor Longbottom did _not_ look impressed.

James tried to subtly pry the note from the impatient owl's leg and read it while class continued. But the crumpling parchment sounded like a massive rock slide to his ears. Almost everyone in the room was staring at him.

 _Potter, if you ever want to see your manky glove again, meet me in the third floor corridor, Friday night, ten o'clock. Come alone. Caspar_

'Shit,' James swore under his breath. As it turned out, Caspar _was_ pissed. He stuffed the letter under Fred's nose as surreptitiously as he could.

Fred suggested Caspar Helstrom should try something anatomically improbable with his wand.

Cat re-joined them and offered James a chilli that she'd somehow managed to procure _again._ He promptly declined.

Fred suggested slipping something rather alarming into Caspar's morning pumpkin juice. Clip went for the more level-headed approach of trying to reason with him. Cat began detailing an elaborate plan involving sneaking into the Ravenclaw common room that James had to rapidly put an end to – he wasn't about to try _that_ stunt again.

The professor began divvying up the plants among the groups. Cat snatched the ghastly chilli thing before anyone else could and brought it over to their table. They were in the middle of ignoring Professor Longbottom's instructions on what to do with their new charges in favour of plotting revenge of Caspar Helstrom when the door to the greenhouse burst open and in charged Sirius – Hagrid's playful wolfhound.

He bounded happily over to where James and the group were sat and started licking James' face, and hands, body, and really anything he could get his own massive head at.

' _Mister_ Potter. Shall I call in the maid? Perhaps have a house elf bring your things down? Please do make yourself at home in my classroom.'

James tried to shove Sirius away. How was this _his_ fault? As he was pushing the dog away from where it was fighting with Cat for the last few chillies on their strange, vine-y plant, he noticed something tucked underneath the collar – a tiny scrap of parchment. Curious, James tugged it free. Sirius gave one massive bark and then took off out the door before anyone could stop him.

Intrigued, James slowly unfolded the tiny scrap, and found a single line of messy text that could only have come from Hagrid.

 _Friday. Ten p.m. Same place. Where the cloak._

'Shit,' James swore yet again, as the others crowded in for a look. It wasn't like Caspar would be open to rescheduling if James asked him nicely.

Cat clapped her hands together excitedly. 'Ooh, we're going back in!' she cried.

'I'll make sure I've got a little gift bag ready for you to give whatever you meet in the Forest,' Fred whispered.

James nodded, but his mind was distracted. Suddenly, their adventures into the Forest had gone from breaking school rules to knowingly disobeying a Ministry Decree. Had Hagrid known that before he sent Sirius to deliver the note? They'd have to be extra careful now. He sighed in resignation. At least he knew where Caspar would be at ten o'clock this coming Friday – far out of James' way. But the thought of giving up his prized Chaser's glove as the price for their secrecy made his stomach turn. It was his most treasured gift from his friends. From _all_ of his friends. He wouldn't let it go that easily.

'Now class, please harvest the fruit from the plants before you. Those of you with the Splutterweed, poke the centre of the plant to release a stream of seeds. Those with the Snarlberry make sure to stroke the vines, and take a care when handling the chillies as they can spontaneously ripen and will burst at the touch – _nobody_ wants that.'

James joined the group in stroking the thickest vines on their plant, which was squirming and waving about like a mass of unsightly tentacles. Cat was happily relieving the rest of them of their burdens as the chillies dropped one by one into her hand. James thought that if he were lost in the Forest and _this_ plant was the only food for miles around, he might prefer to starve.

The group were finally managing some actual work, without any of them getting yelled at by the professor, when, without any hint of a warning, one of the chillies Cat had just popped in her mouth suddenly exploded, and the overwhelming stench of week-old rotting meat washing over the entire group, and a splattering of some vile-smelling juices washed all over the page of notes James had been diligently taking.

The whole class started choking and gagging. Fred just up and ran from the room without looking back. Clip toppled backwards off his stool in a rather unco-ordinated attempt to flee. Poor Cat's face was a bitter mask of betrayal. In between her muffled sobs and choking gags, James thought it about served her right.

Professor Longbottom had just restored order, and got all the students once again working to harvest their plants – the horrible Snarlberry now safely tucked away in a corner inside a glass case – when yet _another_ owl swooped in through one of the newly- opened windows and landed right in front of James.

'Uh oh,' James mumbled.

'James Sirius Potter!' bellowed Professor Longbottom. 'I'm awfully sorry to have to disturb your letter-writing session.'

'Sir, I didn't know-'

'How about you be a good lad and read this one out to us. I for one am starting to feel left out.'

'Erm, I'm not really sure that's a good idea, sir.'

That was a lie. James was absolutely, completely _adamant_ it wasn't a good idea. Because the letter that sat folded neatly before him, was written on scented, mint green parchment, and his name was scribed in glimmering silver ink. Which could only mean that this letter was from one Odette Mansfield.

'Nonsense! We're all dying to see what's so _crucially_ important that it can't wait until my damned lesson is over! So, _read_.'

The professor's tone became a little scary at that last word, and James swallowed nervously as he pried open the letter with trembling fingers. Fred was looking like all of his Christmases had come at once.

' _Dearest James,'_ there were a few snickers around the room at that. ' _My body still trembles at the thought of our most recent embrace.'_

And just like that, it became outright laughter.

'Sir, do I _really_ have to?'

Fred was struggling to get enough air to breath, and might have been in very real danger of passing out form laughing so hard. Professor Longbottom, looking like he was enjoying this all far too much, gestured for James to continue.

' _And so imagine my distress when rumour reached me of your supple form-'_ Fred actually started choking here, and even Professor Longbottom's steely visage threatened to crack. ' _-masquerading naked throughout the castle last night, and right into the bed of that Ravenclaw floozy.'_

Now, James decided. Now was the time for the ground to open up and swallow him whole. For the Giant Squid to grow legs and start attacking the castle. For a torrent of blood and a hail of Fiendfyre to fall from the sky. Merlin, but he'd even take the Desecrator knocking down the walls of Hogwarts over another second of this torture. And Odette hadn't finished yet.

' _I look forward to meeting to discuss this dalliance on Friday evening at-'_ James groaned. ' _Ten p.m. sharp. P.S. I'm bringing a whip… just what I end up using it for will be decided on by your answers to my questions._

' _Yours Affectionately, Odette Mansfield.'_

The table was actually shaking from the entire class's laughter. Fred had fallen to the floor and was writhing around gasping, almost as if in pain. James hoped he was. Even Professor Longbottom was blinking, looking a little shocked.

'Er, Mister Potter. See me in my office after class.'

Great, just what James needed.

And so, when class did finally end, James dragged his feet to the front of the room, to where Professor Longbottom stood with his arms crossed, his eagle eyes making sure James hadn't made a run for it. James had only very briefly considered it.

He was led in silence out the door, up a path used only by the professor for travel between the greenhouses and his private office, and finally back in to the castle, where James could breathe normally and his teeth stopped chattering from the damned cold.

The Professor's office was even warmer again. A merry fire crackled in the grate, and the rich, dark wood and lush carpet added to the cosy environs. Particularly when James glanced out the window that afforded a panoramic view across the greenhouses and saw the first droplets of sleeting rain begin to hammer against the pane.

Professor Longbottom kicked the leg to his table twice with his left foot, and it was like an illusion melting away all throughout the room. Stark, bare shelves with barely a decoration of note became crammed full of photos, books and memoirs. Artefacts whose significance James could only guess at. A framed square of material from some pyjamas. A stuffed vulture. A blade that looked suspiciously like the legendary sword of Gryffindor. And an unusually high number of photos of toads.

'Been preparing for the Ministry arrival for a while now,' the professor explained. 'Writing's been on the wall ever since Renshaw disappeared, really. They're always looking for a reason to get their chubby, bureaucratic fingers on this school.'

James grinned, impressed with the flawlessness of the illusion.

'Now, erm…' the professor was looking a touch uncomfortable. 'I think everybody is sorry I made you read that note…'

'Fred's not.'

'Dare I ask what you and Miss Mansfield get up to?'

'We haven't had-'

'Actually, don't answer that. I don't want to know and be obliged to tell your mother. I'm sure whatever it is, she'd be mortified.'

'Good call, sir.'

Professor Longbottom shook his head in that fed-up, exasperated way he did so well. Before he carried on speaking, he tapped his wand thrice on the top of his desk, turned a key in a hidden lock and opened a draw crammed full with bottles of dark, amber liquid. He took his time choosing one out, sniffed it, and poured himself a healthy glass. Which he drained in one mouthful. It was only after he'd finished pouring the second drink that he let out a long, drawn-out sigh and faced James properly.

James was willing to bet his last Galleon that it hadn't been apple juice in those bottles.

'James, I appreciated things have been a little… terse between us so far this year. But was it really necessary to make such a scene in my lesson? The edible plants is usually one of my favourite classes of the year.'

'I'm sorry sir, I honestly wasn't expecting any of it.'

Professor Longbottom eyed James over the lip of his glass, and eventually nodded, taking a much smaller sip this time. He leaned back in his chair and spent a moment studying the wood panelling on the ceiling. James followed his gaze, but found no answers in the dark staining and perfectly aligned grain. Neither, it appeared, did the professor.

'You'll be aware, James, that the teachers are under some duress in the absence of our Headmistress. Extra workload, administrative duties, regulatory compliance… It's a wonder Renshaw hasn't gone completely grey since she started here. I guess what I'm saying – and it's a poor excuse, I'll admit – is that I have been remiss in not scheduling this conversation much sooner, and I apologise for that.'

'I've hardly been seeking you out either, sir.'

'Nevertheless, things needn't have dragged out for so long. I feel I could have saved you quite a deal of discomfort had I not been so busy being cross at you. Particularly if Professor Meadows' reports on your detentions are anything to be believed. How were they?'

'Disastrous, sir. Abysmal. Please don't make me do another. Ever.'

'Duly noted. And as a sort of peace offering, I'd like you to accompany me on a small errand. Think of it as one, final detention. We can put all of this behind us.'

James was surprised at the size of the knot he felt releasing in his shoulders when Professor Longbottom spoke. No more nightmares with Zoe Meadows. No more scrubbing obscure corners of the dungeons under Professor Ellfrick's beady-eyed gaze, or unsticking feathers from the roof for Professor Budd, or tending to half-cat, half-doorknob monstrosities for Professor Plye. He could practically taste the freedom. And all the extra hours of sleep.

'I'll just need you to be ready this Friday evening, at around, say ten o'clock. Can you manage that?'

That terrible _whump_ sound James was hearing was all of his dreams of freedom crashing back to the earth like they'd just been bucked from an out-of-control broomstick.

'Er, sir, I'm not sure if I can do that.'

'James, I'm positive that whatever dubiously-acceptable things you and Miss Mansfield have planned for the evening can be rescheduled.'

'It's not that sir, I-'

'James, this isn't a request.'

'Sir, I _really_ , can't make it.'

James could feel tiny pinpricks of sweat beading on his forehead, and the back of his neck. A sharp juxtaposition against the biting cold he'd been feeling all lesson. He thought he ought to be able to tell Professor Longbottom about their adventures into the Forest, but the pair of them had been on rocky ground all year. Not to mention the letter that had arrived not two hours ago, direct from the Ministry. What they were doing now apparently amounted to treason. Could he trust the professor to keep _that_ a secret?

Professor Longbottom reached into his drawer once more and pulled out another of the glass bottles. This time, he simply unstoppered the cork and didn't even bother with the glass. It was turning into one of those days.

'Do you know why I was so upset when you stole from me last year, James?'

'Because I broke the rules?' James asked, suddenly feeling quite small, sitting across from the professor behind his broad desk, framed by the imposing décor of his room.

'No, James. Because someone whom I thought of as a _friend_ broke my trust. Because you went behind my back and disobeyed a direct order. You are like family to me, James. And I felt betrayed when you did that.'

'I- I'm sorry, sir. I wanted to help. I wanted to do _something._ I felt like nobody was taking Alder seriously, and I just wanted to help.'

'Alder was a fabrication, James. The Desecrator killed him before the Infection even started. He was a decoy, crafted to draw the Desecrator and his henchmen out of hiding. The plan didn't work, however, as your Uncle Ron was waylaid by your friend Rain, and nearly captured by Steelhearts.'

'Alder was fake?! Rain attacked Uncle Ron?' Professor Longbottom delivered the news as if he had been talking about the weather, or the coming week's curriculum. But the facts hit James like physical blows, knocking the wind clean out of him and leaving him gasping and spluttering for air.

'We think that something Miss Brooks did to Rain affected her mental state in a more serious manner than initially anticipated. Professor Meadows has since banned her from using that magic on any student. I believe reports indicated that Rain was taken to St Mungo's shortly after she… short-circuited. I would speculate that she has been moved to a secure Quarantine facility, though without Renshaw present, we have received no official word from St Mungo's or Ministry officials on her whereabouts.'

James' head was spinning. His father had told him _nothing_ of any of this. He was torn between outrage at being kept in the dark, and excitement at further information as to what may have happened to Rain.

Suddenly, and with a resounding _clunk,_ something fell into place in James' head, and he straightened a little in his seat as he addressed the Professor.

'Sir, I can't make your detention this Friday because I've been sneaking into the Forbidden Forest with Hagrid, my father, Cat and Tristan to try and find the thing that killed the French horse so that we can free Renshaw.'

Professor Longbottom's eyes bulged, his mouth slid open, and by the time that James had finished speaking he was shaking his head in despair and reaching for yet another bottle from the hidden drawer in his desk.

'Sir, I didn't know any of the things you just told me about the Desecrator, or Alder, or Rain. If I'd have known that, I wouldn't have acted out, and maybe we could have caught the Desecrator if he'd shown up at Hogwarts. Sure, I didn't trust you when you told me to keep out of it, but nobody trusted _me_ enough to let me be involved.

'My father will go to great lengths to protect the people that he cares about. Sometimes, too far. The more we are kept in the dark, and the less we know about what the others are doing, the more likely we are to slip up. We just spent nearly half of a school year not speaking because of a misunderstanding, when instead we could have been working together to get Rain and Renshaw back.'

Professor Longbottom looked mighty uncomfortable at James' outburst. He tried to combat this with another long draught of his drink. It didn't appear as if he'd succeeded.

'Thank you for telling me, James. And, I suppose, in the interest of full disclosure, we have been keeping you in the dark because we think there is a chance that you are too close to Miss Rain. And that that might have… clouded your judgement on certain matters.'

'To _Rain?_ Why would that be a problem? She's the one we're trying to help. Isn't she?'

Before he answered, the professor got up from his seat and drew the blinds closed. He fastened three locks on the door, and waved his wand in a wonky zig-zag motion, muttering a string of spells beneath his breath. James caught a few of the incantations, and recognised them as high-level secrecy spells that his father and Uncle Ron used when they needed to keep a conversation private.

'James, we… we think Rain might be involved with the Desecrator.'

James had thought he'd been shocked before. But now it felt like he couldn't draw enough breath to even form words.

'How _involved?'_

'We think it might not have _entirely_ been the side-effects of Miss Brooks' magic that caused Rain to attack your uncle Ron that day. He indicated that she… said some things that suggest she knew what they were doing. Like perhaps she'd been in contact with the Desecrator. Like she was an agent, or a follower.'

The words _Death Eater_ hung, unspoken, in the air between them. A different age, and a different evil, but the sentiment remained the same.

'No.' James said firmly, shaking his head. 'No way. Not a chance. She _can't_ have. She's just… just _Rain._ She's strange. People just don't like her because she's different.'

There was an obvious defensive tone in James' voice.

'James, Kattala Lovegood is _different._ Miss Rain is something else entirely. Nobody has ever understood her. Except, perhaps Renshaw. But any concerns we raised were turned away, promptly.

'And now, a few of us teachers who had been doing some… extra-curricular work in following up leads on Renshaw have had things stolen from them. Evidence, notes, photographs. And we think somebody has raided the Pensieve kept in the Headmistress' office. We think that there is a small group of students actively trying to help secure Renshaw's incarceration, or at the very least, prevent her return. Renshaw has been the most vocal advocate of capturing the Desecrator, and with her gone, we think perhaps the Desecrator will make a reappearance, and it may clear the path for Miss Rain to return to school, if, in fact she is not missing but currently in hiding.'

'Bloody hell,' James aptly summarised. He bit back on telling the professor what he'd seen with Cassie and the Locket. A part of him couldn't quite grasp the fact that Rain might be working with the Desecrator. It refused to.

But what the Professor said might have made sense. _Maybe._ Rain had _other_ friends. James had met one of them, once. A Ravenclaw girl named Annecke he'd had a bad feeling about at the time. There were others, too. Children of Death Eaters, people he usually avoided.

Could the professor be right? And right on the heels of what he'd just witnessed through the magic of the Locket – Rain herself had torn the Stone free from the bones of Atlantis, it seemed. Hardly the act of an innocent victim.

Merlin, but could James have been _so_ wrong for so long? He ran both hands through his hair in despair, eyes darting around the room looking for something, anything to latch on to and stop his spiral.

'Thank you for telling me, James.' Professor Longbottom said kindly. 'You're right; your father has a tendency to keep things from those he probably shouldn't, all in the name of safety. Go, this Friday. Uncover what you can, but be vigilant. There _are_ people in this castle who would see us fail, and as of today, our failure carries a very heavy price. I'll make sure the corridors are clear for you when you depart.'

'Th-thanks, professor,' James managed to stutter through numb lips.

'You still owe me one last detention, but it's good to know we're finally all on the same team.'

James nodded, pushing himself up in stilted, forced movements to leave the room. He threw his bag over his shoulder and strode out, not looking back once. Nascent plans were swirling a mile a minute in James' mind. Conversations to have, individuals to track down. Secrets to keep and protect. The Professor had been so certain that they were all working for the same goal, on the same side.

But as long as Rain's name bore a target over it, James wasn't sure of that at all.


	17. Trap

_A/N: We're back, after a longer than anticipated hiatus. A spot of real life admin cropped up, which has subsequently been dealt with as much as is possible. We can all look forward to a more reasonable update schedule from here on in, as we make our way into the second half of the book._

* * *

'Clip, you're good with Numerology and Arithmancy and all of that, help us put a number on it.'

Clip furrowed his brow, and sucked pensively on the end of his quill. The three other boys looked on. Homework and quills and school books lay scattered between them like detritus after a storm. Somewhere outside, midst the darkness, an owl cried. Baleful and haunting. Finally, Clip spoke.

'If I had to guess – and it's only a rough estimate, mind you – I'd say, James Potter, that you are staring down the wand of an approximately seventy-six percent chance of utter disaster, and/or total calamity. Perhaps a touch of both.'

'C'mon, Clip!' James moaned.

Fred and Tristan likewise uttered groans of despair.

'You were supposed to be _helping!'_ Fred growled.

'I can't! The numbers are what they are, what did you want me to do, lie?'

'Yes!' Fred, Tristan and James all chorused.

'Oh. Well, in that case, you're going to be… fine?'

'Ugh.' James slowly slumped down in the chair he was occupying, until his head was barely visible over the edge of the table. He buried himself further by placing his unashamedly poor attempt at a Transfiguration essay over his face. 'Girls are the _worst.'_

'Well, it's not _only_ the Mansfield conundrum,' Clip piped up. 'A large part of the catastrophe hinges on your complete inability to deal with the impending Helstrom debacle-'

' _Clip!'_

'Sorry. Right. Er, you've got it all under control…'

James exhaled heavily, fluttering the edges of the parchment over his head. With a bit of luck, it would come to life and – so insulted by the lack of effort he'd put into it – suffocate him out of spite. It might have been a less painful demise than having to face the – as Clip had unhelpfully dubbed it – Fatal Fiasco Friday that was so rapidly approaching.

'Does anyone have anything actually helpful to add?' James asked, listlessly. He'd picked all three of their brains non-stop over the past four hours, and none of them had managed to come up with anything better than bursting in to the Ravenclaw dormitory and kicking down Caspar's door. With Odette Mansfield slung over one shoulder, doubtless swooning at his heroics.

He might have gotten more help from consulting with the Giant Squid.

James was certainly _not_ about to step foot anywhere near Ravenclaw tower again without a damned good reason.

'I wish there was a way I could be in three places at once,' James complained to the group at large. He removed the stupid essay from his head and slapped it down on the table. He'd been rather impressed by his ability to fit only four words per line and stretch it out to the full three feet required by Professor Plye. Honestly, what sort of insane person could fill that much parchment detailing the anatomy of a worm? They were hardly any different from the shoelaces that the class were transfiguring them into.

'What about-?' Fred began.

'Polyjuice potion?' James pre-empted him. 'Already been there. Asked Cassie. Received a resounding _"no"_ and a threat that if I ever thought about duping Odette like that again _she_ would be the one to disembowel me with a dessert spoon.'

'But Cassie _hates_ Odette,' Fred said.

'It's the code,' Tristan informed them, nodding sagely. When they offered only blank looks in response he leaned in and continued in a hushed, secretive manner. 'Somewhere, there is a secret code written down that every single witch on the planet has signed in blood, whereby no matter how much they hate each other, they will _always_ stick up for one another when there are lads involved. It's like a bible.'

'Girls are mental,' James uttered. Not for the first time.

'Wait a minute,' Clip suddenly gasped.

'They _definitely_ are,' Tristan began to argue. 'You ought to know, Cassie's right up there. Have you _seen_ the look on her face when she sniffs a sheaf of new parchment? I feel like I'm spying on something private.'

'What if we try the Polyjuice,' Clip wisely chose to ignore Tristan's speech in its entirety. 'But _without_ the Polyjuice.'

'Err… is that not just us showing up to fight Caspar in James' stead?' Fred asked, perplexed.

'Exactly!' Clip exclaimed.

'So… Polyjuice is not relevant to this plan at all?'

'It's brilliant!'

'There might be something to it,' James ventured, slowly sitting back upright in his chair. He shoved a hefty library book aside and flipped his Transfiguration essay over to finally put the parchment to worthwhile use.

He scribbled a hasty map on the back of the sheet, and shoved it under Fred's nose.

'What's this?'

'This is the corridor where Caspar wants to meet. You aren't coming with us into the Forest, so you could go and meet him instead.'

'Mate, he's not going to hang around if he sees you haven't shown up. The moment he notices it's me he'll bolt.'

'Not if you've rigged the entire corridor with traps beforehand,' James smirked.

The sly grin began to spread to Fred's face as realisation dawned. He snatched the quill from James, and jotted down first one, then three, then finally close to thirty little "X's" with annotation and notes.

'I'll take Clip with me,' Fred said, nodding to himself. 'I've just received another shipment via owl. This will be the perfect opportunity to test some of the less… stable items.'

Clip swallowed, looking a little green all of a sudden.

James took the parchment back eventually, tucking it into his stack of homework and hoping the professor would too busy being appalled at the quality of his essay to notice.

It was at about this moment, riffling through his stack of shoddy homework and smoothing out the folds in his poorly-drawn diagram for Defence Against the Dark Arts, that James had an idea. But it wasn't one that he liked.

'Shit.'

'What?' Fred asked, distracted. He was currently busy jamming a quill into one ear and pulling it out of the other.

'I think I figured out how to solve the Mansfield Conundrum.'

'Really?'

All three suddenly sat to attention. Fred, with a quill apparently stuck through his head, Clip busily trying to hide the fact he'd just about fallen asleep, and Tristan likewise trying to cover up the explicit stick figures he'd been doodling on the back page of Clip's Transfiguration essay.

'Yea,' James said, shoving all of his homework into his bag in a sweeping motion and pushing himself to his feet. He sighed and gritted his teeth. With a single wistful gaze down to the safety of his friends, he waved them farewell. 'But I don't think anyone is going to like it… I need to pay Professor Meadows a visit.'

And with that he made his way from the room, running a hand through his hair in exasperation. If Odette was going to play games and spend the whole week avoiding him in a fit of faux anger, then he'd damn well get down to her level. He just hoped it wasn't about to end with his evisceration and slow, painful death.

* * *

Friday night rolled around with that indomitable surety that time possesses, unyielding and unflinching in the face of James' anxiety and anticipation. It was with bent back and bowed legs that he found himself walking out towards Hagrid's hut as the stars provided the only light in the sky. Although for once, it wasn't the pressure of his impending doom that was bowing him, but the struggle to keep three people – one of them frustratingly tall – beneath a Cloak that seemed to be getting smaller by the day. Add to that the pulsing, smoking, whirring bag of Weasley's products that Fred had bestowed up on them, and James, Cat and Tristan's journey was a slow and stilted one, indeed.

'Ow, mate, that was my foot,' Tristan swore.

'Cat, that's the third time you've elbowed me in the throat!'

In response to James' complaint, Cat gave a little, high pitched 'Eep!' and turned and slapped James across the face, sending him staggering backwards and plonking down onto the wet grass beneath the hefty weight of the bag he was carrying.

'Bloody hell,' he and Tristan both swore. James was fixing his gaze on the ground and busying himself by trying not to show any of the eye-watering pain.

Cat, meanwhile, was trying to detach something that looked like a long, inflated tube sock from where it seemed to be happily suckling away on her bottom. It came free with a disgusting squelch, and she held it out at arms' length, between two pinched fingers. She gave James rather a sheepish look and an apologetic smile. It did little to take away the sting

James accepted Tristan's hand up, and hastily re-covered the three of them beneath the Cloak, forcing the return of awkward bent knees and stifling proximity. He proffered the bag he had slung over his shoulder for Cat to dispose of the weird sock-thing back into the abyss from whence it came. He honestly didn't know how Fred could have decided how _that_ could help them fight off terrifying magical creatures of myth and legend.

'Sorry!' Cat squeaked.

'S'okay. Didn't even hurt.' James lied between clenched teeth.

When Cat's attention was elsewhere – namely trying to catch a terrified little cricket that had hopped up inside the Cloak – James turned to Tristan, who was clearly biting down on his tongue to stop from laughing.

'Is it red?' he whispered. 'Can you see anything?'

'Not a thing, mate,' Tristan assured him with a stoic nod. 'You took it like a champ.'

They arrived at Hagrid's hut without any further incident – unless one was to count the unfortunate cricket who Cat managed to squish between her palms by accident. At first glance, it could have been abandoned. No lights shone from within. Windows were covered in thick canvas, and the door was shut fast. The building itself seemed to shrug down in the darkness, receding back into the encroaching forest and bringing the needles and branches about itself like a cloak.

The group knew to head around to the back door, and they collectively trod on only three pumpkins in the process of doing so. James raised his hand from the safety of the Cloak and scratched quietly against the weathered boards. The door glided open beneath his touch, and the three exchanged the vast, cavernous darkness of the yawning night sky for the close, huddled gloom of the cabins sole room.

A pair of candles set upon the table and lidded by grimy, dirty glasses provided the barest hint of light. Enough only to make out shapes and shadows of burnished, ruddy light among the blackness. No light at all penetrated to the corners of the rooms, and tendrils of absolute night reached eager fingers across the room, beckoning with ominous fingers into their shadowy depths.

Most of the clutter had been cleared away, and two figures stood at the centre of the room. They were still and silent, and their posture reeked of impatient anxiety.

'Good, yer here.' Hagrid's rumbling whisper was a low, shuddering baritone that reverberated around the room.

James folded the Cloak away, and swiftly closed the gap between himself and the other figure. Harry Potter brought his son into a rough, one-armed hug and ruffled his hair amicably. Familiar greetings eased away a bit of the tension, though none dared speak of the implications of what they sought to do. Nobody mentioned the letters from the Ministry they had received only days ago.

'What happened to you?' Harry whispered, pulling back and examining James' cheek. 'It looks like you've been- _James Sirius Potter_ what did you do?'

' _What?_ I just- It's sunburn. _'_

'It's November.'

James rounded on Tristan. 'You said you couldn't see anything!'

Hagrid's low chuckle was a gravelly growl. 'It's shinin' so bright I could put out the candles and we'd still be able ter see.'

'It was a misunderstanding! Tell them, Cat.'

Cat, who'd been sidling up to Hagrid's cage of upturned Billywigs, looked back over her shoulder and answered in a distracted fashion. 'Oh, his sock grabbed my backside.'

'You _what?!'_

Harry cuffed James over the other ear before he could duck for cover.

'It wasn't- I didn't- Cat, what the _hell!_ '

James ducked and weaved about the room, looking for cover from the wrath of his father. He tripped and fell on an outstretched table leg and the bag of Weasley's products spilled open, the sock-like object rolling free and flopping about on the floor for a moment, before making a beeline directly towards where Cat was standing, perched on a stool, with her tongue through the bars of the Billywig cage.

'Yee!' Cat squealed as her nemesis approached. James dove on the damned thing and managed to wrestle it back into the bag. He was going to have some stern words with Fred when tonight was over.

'It's a Weasley thing,' he growled between gritted teeth. 'Fred said it was supposed to _help.'_

That appeared a sufficient explanation to satisfy Harry, and the group settled down once more to discuss their plan for the night. Hagrid brought out a large canvas sheet as long across as James was tall, and laid it out on the table. The corners he weighted down with the sputtering candles and the group pored over the faded, dust-marred etchings as one.

'Bought this off a local bloke down the pub last week,' Hagrid whispered. The noise was that of a small earthquake. 'It's a map o' the Forest, s'far as I can make out.'

James studied it intently. It was not a thing of magic, like he'd heard tell of the Marauders' Map, nor the new version he'd stolen from Wren in his first year. But that it was beautiful in its own right, there was no denying. The one who had made it had clearly been a seasoned cartographer. Though age had creased the face, and layer upon layer of dust marred some of the finer detail, the lines remained clear and crisp. Wending streams criss-crossed the canvas like a dendritic network of veins, the lifeblood of the forest. Dark smudges covered almost every inch of the sheet – thick areas of almost pure blackness announcing the most dense and inhospitable areas of the Forest awaiting them. Cliffs and valleys were marked in contours so clear that James could almost see the topography in three dimensions before him. Gentle, flowing lines announced sheer drops and breathtaking precipices in such an understated, calm manner that James had to force his mind to take in the sheer scale of it. And above it all, marked in a faded grey-brown that barely stood out from the canvas itself, were the tracks that cut through the Forest. Into deep areas James would never imagine entering alone.

As he studied each one, he found his eyes following the path easily, deeper, onwards into the heart of the Forest. Into the areas of pure blackness into which every path and trail, every creek and valley and hollow seemed to vanish. It called to James like something physical, drawing his eyes over and again as the group studied the map in silence.

'This is where we were last time,' Hagrid finally continued, the awe of the artefact finally dissipating enough to allow further conversation. 'Against this cliff.'

James traced the length of the valley over what must have been kilometres. Steep, sheer sides shouldered the meandering stream as far as the map could make out.

'And we think we heard the cry coming from this direction,' Harry added, gesturing north, up the valley. Away from the castle. There was no need to ask which cry that he spoke of. Each of them retreated within themselves a little at the mere mention of it.

James' eyes darted about the map. 'There's a track that takes us close, here,' he gestured.

'Aye,' rumbled Hagrid. 'But it's not one I've known about. Might be it doesn't exist anymore. This map's old.'

'And it cuts through this spot which is almost jet black,' Tristan added, gesturing to a narrow valley. It could have only been a few hundred metres across, but the sides were sheer, and it was some of the thickest Forest around.

Cat, who had been tracing the track with one slender finger, recoiled suddenly when she get to the valley. She gave a frightened hiss, and her hand found James' beneath the table. She didn't speak, instead favouring the map with a baleful glare.

'The track runs all the way to the edge of the cliffs, and then stops,' Tristan observed. 'At least where we were last time there was a path down into the valley.'

'Salazar's Switchback,' Hagrid growled. 'Not a chance we're going down there. We'll find us another way.'

'Very well,' Harry spoke up, with an edge of finality in his voice. 'We'll take this new path. We stay as one group. Hagrid at the front, I'll bring up the rear. Nobody splits up, under _any_ circumstances. And nobody, _nobody_ is to leave the path at any time.'

They all nodded grimly. James let out a long, wavering sigh. He could feel Cat shaking through her grip on his hand. Memories of their last encounter with the mystical beasts haunted him. The ghost of that primal fear refused to be pushed back. There was no chatter at all as the group made final preparations. And they were limited to hand signals only as they pushed open the door and set out into the eager, hungry embrace of the shadows beneath the canopy of the Forbidden Forest.

* * *

There was a hint of trepidation halting the footsteps of Fred Weasley and Clip Wallace as they slunk through the corridors of Hogwarts castle, dancing between shadowed alcoves and hidden sconces after hours and out of bed. But it was only a hint. Their chests were puffed, their chins were high and their smiles were barely constrained. They had Caspar and his cronies right where they wanted them: just about to walk their stupid, lumbering backsides into the middle of Fred's brilliant trap.

The pair – with help from James and Tristan – had spent most of their free time over the past day and a half rigging the out-of-the-way third-floor corridor that Caspar had asked to meet in. Fred had memorized the maps James scrawled on the back of his Transfiguration essay, and added a touch of finesse to demonstrate his own flair. James had great instincts for causing havoc, after all, but Fred touted himself and himself alone as the true master of mayhem.

At a dimly-lit junction in a fourth floor corridor, Fred held up his hand to signal a pause. He felt Clip's breath catch behind him. A faint rustling as the smaller boy shifted his weight. Fred could feel the tension rolling off of him. Not much of a fighter, was their Clip.

Up ahead, a pair of amorous older Slytherin students were fumbling with the doorknob to a broom closet. Fred didn't blame the lad; his dexterity would have been pretty impaired too if he'd had a Slytherin lass rummaging around in the front of his trousers like that.

His mind briefly wandered back to the blue-haired Slytherin he'd met in Hogsmeade. He'd tried and tried, but never seen anyone that fit her description around the castle since. And for the life of him, he could not recall her name. He still had dreams about that weekend… and nightmares.

Suddenly, the faintest of breezes stirred the hairs on the back of his neck, and a shadow seemed to brush past the edge of his vision. His mind jerked back to the moment. The couple had disappeared from view.

'Did you feel that?' Fred asked, turning back towards Clip.

But his query tailed off into nothing, as he saw Clip folded as tightly as was humanly possibly into the back of a sconce bearing a rusty suit of armour. He'd have been lucky to have seen or felt anything more than the bricks in front of his own face. At least he had the decency to look a little sheepish as the pair carried on down the corridor, giving the suspicious sounds emanating from the broom closet a wide berth as they did.

A tall, gilded vase on a claw-legged pedestal rotated ninety degrees beneath Fred's confident touch, and a narrow, winding stair led them down to the third floor, and their proposed meeting place with Caspar. Fred ushered Clip through first. The fit was tight and single file was necessary.

As he watched Clip disappear briefly from view around the tight, winding descent, Fred cast a single glance back over his shoulder at the corridor they had vacated. Something uneasy sat with him now, hovering over his shoulders, in his periphery, always just out of sight. Something about the encounter seemed out of place.

But the corridor only gazed back, and for all of its shadows and corners and moonlit darkness, it seemed to have nothing to hide.

There was a little more caution guiding Fred's steps now, as he pushed on towards the encounter ahead.

The corridor in which they were to meet was little-used during the day. Despite the ever-growing population of Hogwarts and the spreading of her students throughout the castle like rising floodwaters, this wing was inexplicably kept barren.

Or, perhaps, the explanation was in its history. As the two boys entered the corridor proper and the torches sputtered to life, flanking them and announcing their presence, Fred's eyes darted to a door he knew contained a room marred by giant scratches and claw-marks. A room which housed a trap door that not even James had been mad enough to drag them through. Yet.

Their footsteps echoed up into the darkness above. The torchlight didn't quite illuminate the ceiling. And cobwebbed stone archways faded up into murky greyness, watching on with stoic faces unfazed by the lick of feeble firelight.

Tracks ran through the dust before them. Criss-crossing every which way, doubling back on one another, some seeming to stop in the middle of the corridor and pick up somewhere entirely different. He and Clip had spent considerable time on that piece of the puzzle, masking their _real_ movements as they had spent parts of the day and the night prior preparing the trap they would spring on Caspar in a matter of minutes.

Fred had to jab Clip in the ribs to stop his eyes wandering up to the rafters and into the thickest pockets of darkness toward their hidden contraptions and, traps and tripwires. Fred had laid each one himself. He was a grandmaster; there was no way they'd be seen.

The pair stopped when they sensed movement that wasn't their own. Up ahead, a shadowy figure began to coalesce from the grainy darkness. Tall, and imposing. He stood with set shoulders and a raised chin.

And he appeared to be alone.

Fred saw Clip grin, but it was fear that shot through his own mind. Caspar wasn't a fighter. He would know James would beat him in a duel, if it came to that. There was no way he'd have come alone. Fred tried to tell himself that he was just being paranoid, but when Caspar didn't bat an eyelid at their appearance in place of James', his own heart started thumping in his chest.

'What a surprise, Potter is too cowardly to show,' Caspar sneered. His blonde hair was perfectly combed and parted. He was wearing what looked like a dress robe, in deep, Ravenclaw blue. Silver scrollwork bordered the cuffs. He'd be more at place in a ballroom than a dingy abandoned corridor about to fight a duel.

'He's got better things to do than deal with Dragon dung like yourself, Helstrom,' Fred growled.

'Oh, so then what does that make you two? His personal shit-cleaners? Do you help him go to the bathroom? Does he bend over so you can wipe his-'

'Enough!'

Fred's voice bounced back and forth around the corridor all around them. It faded into something faint and plaintive by the time it properly died.

'We're here for the glove,' Clip said, stepping forward with his hand out. Caspar only smiled and shook his head in response.

'I'm sure that the both of you find yourselves saying this a lot, but I'm sorry to disappoint you tonight.' Caspar stepped forward. The dancing torchlight spun shadows across his face.

'And I'm sorry to say that you're not going to have an option,' Fred warned, his hand only moments away from darting to his wand.

'Oh, but that is where you are so very, very wrong,' Helstrom smirked.

And he raised his hands, signalling the torches all down the corridor behind him to suddenly come to life, revealing a dozen, twenty, perhaps close to thirty students dressed in similar robes as he. Those nerves that Fred had been feeling crashed over him, and he tasted hot, bitter bile in the back of his throat. Clip emitted a tiny groan beside him.

There were students of all houses. Most were younger, with a few older faces scattered here and there. They wore robes the colour of their house, similarly garish as Caspar's. Fred recognised a few of the faces – students from his own year. Even some Gryffindors he knew. He noted with confusion, that instead of the crimson and gold, all of their robes were black.

Fred couldn't help it now, his eyes darted to the positions he'd fixed some of his nastiest traps. He'd designed them to handle three or four of Caspar's friends, not this cast of dozens that stood before them. All of a sudden, it was they who would be lucky to escape unscathed.

And he didn't even know the half of it, yet.

Both Fred and Clip went for the comfort of their wands as one, and both cried out in dismay to find their pockets empty.

'Looking for these?' Caspar asked, rolling around a pair of familiar wands carelessly in the palm of his hand.

The Slytherins – they had been a distraction. That movement, that shadow from the corner of his vision. Fred felt his blood boiling, the skin on his body taking fire. He still had the traps on his side; he'd be damned if he went down without a fight.

He and Clip charged as one, the sound of blood rushing in his ears precluded him from fully hearing as Caspar spoke. 'It would be wise next time, to not write your plans on the back of your homework, Weasley. It's not just students that are against you, you know. There are teachers who have had enough, as well.'

Fred barely managed to process what Caspar was saying before the first of his re-wired traps sprung on himself and Clip.

* * *

The feeling of closeness in the forest was worse than the darkness itself. The group carried no source of light as they ghosted through the ranks of towering pine and fir and spruce. But dappled moonlight and adjusted night vision gave them sight enough to navigate by. It was the feeling of the world contracted to the tiny space around James, that set him most on edge. The notion that his entire existence was contained within the dozen or so yards he could make out on either side. That the whispering and muttering and groaning in the branches above his head was the sky itself, contemplating crashing down upon them. No line of sight was clear. Gnarled roots and ensnaring vines forced tiny, shuffling steps. The vastness of the forest itself seemed to turn on them, forcing their futility and insignificance to taunt them as they made their arduous way through the undergrowth.

'You didn't need to know,' Harry Potter hissed at James as they trailed along at the back of the group. James could see Cat up ahead, her long curtain of silver-blonde hair glowing whenever it hit the moonlight. 'If I'd told you, it would have put you at risk.'

'If you'd _told_ me, I would have known what was going on,' James shot back, ducking underneath a low-hanging branch. 'I could have been able to _help,_ and Rain wouldn't be in trouble.'

Harry was silent for a long time. The two of them had dropped off the back of the group a small way, but not so far as to cause alarm. They were walking side-by-side, wands lowered and eyes scanning the surrounding forest for dangers. So far they'd come across nothing more treacherous than a confused possum and what looked like a rogue party of Bowtruckles hiding out in a particularly tall fir.

'James, nothing would make me happier than for you to spend your seven years at Hogwarts quietly and peacefully without ever having to raise your want to defend yourself or your friends.

'Times have changed now, you don't have to do everything by yourself like I did.'

The path before them became covered in pine needles and broken twigs. It appeared to split around the bole of a broad tree, one direction heading down into a valley, the other, up towards a ridgeline, where the murky grey underworld of the Forbidden Forest seemed to shrink back beneath the moonlight and the open sky. Of course, they were heading down deeper. He scuffed the bark on the tree as they passed to mark their movements.

'Times have changed, but you still can't protect me from every single thing all the time, dad. If anyone wants to hurt me or my friends, they aren't going to do it on your schedule, or wait for your permission. You're hundreds of miles away while I'm at school. And without Renshaw here, Hogwarts is not as safe as it once was.'

Again, Harry took his time in responding. James contented himself with shouldering forwards, a half-step ahead of his father. His eyes strained to penetrate the darkness. As the trees closed in around him, their group bunched up once more, and they were having to make their progress by touch as much as sight – their fumbling hands grasping trunks and branches; tentative footsteps probing around roots and potholes.

'That's why the less you know, the safer you are.'

'That's _bullshit!'_ James swore, causing the rest of the group to halt in alarm at his outburst. Harry gestured in frustration that they continue.

James was the first to set out again. He pushed his way right up to the front of the group, fuming at his father. He took point silently, alongside Hagrid and Tristan, pushing the group on farther and faster so that Hagrid had to reach out and physically pull James back several times to save him from a wrong turn.

The irony wasn't lost on James, and it only served to make him more angry.

He was the first to step foot into the valley he knew from Hagrid's map had been marked with some of the deepest black. The path before him cut away from the side of the ridgeline they had been traversing. It was narrow and winding and barely more than a suggestion of a game trail. The needles that marked it hadn't been disturbed in days, possibly weeks. It meandered down the side of the valley in a switchback pattern, weaving in and out between trees that hung on to the progressively steeper side of the hill with increasing desperation and fragility. Soon exposed roots and vines, like the tender underbelly of a gigantic beast, were bared, desperately keeping the trees from completing their drunken tumble into the swirling depths below.

The flora changed here, in this valley. It took a while for James to notice it. For the thin needles to be replaced by broad, drooping leaves. For the oppressive stillness to melt away before a chorus of chirping and whirring that – anywhere else – would have seemed harmless and normal. Down here, it felt only alien and ominous.

Shapes shifted in the corners of his visions. Vines writhing and twisting, following their progress eagerly, hungrily. Every bit alive as he himself was. The air was pregnant with a tense, charged energy that – was James familiar with it – he'd recognise as characteristic of a place of old, powerful magic.

The ground flattened out unexpectedly, and James tumbled into the base of the valley, alone at the fore of the group. The sound of life around him seemed to shift as he did, so that wherever he looked, the noise came from behind him. It made his hackles rise, and he gripped his wand a little tighter as a result. Soft beds of moss carpeted the forest floor, undisturbed by anything, as far as James could make out. His footsteps left obvious marks, and little pools of green sap filled them as he passed, as if his presence caused the forest itself to bleed.

Never had he felt like such an intruder in his life.

Soon, Hagrid's heavy footfalls began to approach, and James pushed on once more, still angry at his father and – through no fault of their own – the rest of the group. The path, he knew, cut a gradual climb up towards the spot on the cliffs near where they thought the creatures were coming from.

James kept just far enough ahead that the others were in earshot the rest of the way out of the valley. The gentle incline took him out of the strange wonderland and back into the mundane Forest as he knew it. Soon, the grainy grey shapes before him gained a touch more resolution, and he found himself surfacing into the night air.

A cool breeze tugged at his clothes, and, he noted with surprise, chilled the sweat that had beaded on his forehead and neck. The freshness of it was in stark contrast to the dank, musty humus he had been trekking through all night, and he took in a deep breath to savour it. Only a few steps ahead of him he could make out the ground dropping away, and he knew they'd arrived at their destination.

The rest of the group arrived together. James saw Harry stride out ahead in an attempt to pull him aside. He could already see the stern set of his father's jaw, and the hard edge to his eyes. It brought up a sudden pang of annoyance in James, and he spun away before Harry could reach out an arm to grab him. James stalked off along the cliff's edge.

'James, wait!' Harry called.

'I'm looking for a way down,' James yelled back, without even turning.

He stomped through the weedy undergrowth that clung to the scrappy soils near the sheer drop. He kicked a pebble off the edge and listened with satisfaction as it clattered its way down to its doom.

He noticed a familiar snarled bunch of tentacle-like vines up ahead, and paused momentarily to scowl at the Snarlberry – the stupid, disgusting chilli-like plant that Cat loved. A few of the bright blue fruit hung about it. In a final vent to his frustrations, and as a means for revenge from their disgusting Herbology lesson, James lined up a kick and punted the plant as far as he could off the ledge.

He instantly regretted his decision, as a smell more foul that he could imagine assaulted him. Vines and chillies and a gross, fleshy substance spun through the air as James gagged from the stench of rotting meat.

And, as if in omen, he suddenly remembered one of Professor Longbottom's passing comments on the Snarlberry from that fateful lesson – that it was a favoured food of hunters and scavengers alike, and they could track its scent from miles away.

Well, the beast that rose up over the clifftop didn't need to travel miles. And as it unfolded its wings, blocking out the moon and the sky and all the light of James' world, it let out a cry that left him paralysed, shaken, falling in slow motion to his knees. He managed to turn his head in time to see his father dashing towards him, mouth moving but no words seemed to sound out. It was all James could do to helplessly reach out his own hand, before he felt something pierce through his chest with the force of the strongest of Bludgers, and his world became tilted and skewed and, finally, black.

* * *

 _A/N: I hope you didn't think I was going to ease you back into it..._


	18. Cave

_A/N: Merry Christmas to all! Here's my gift to the lot of you - the latest chapter, and hopefully an answer to the questions left hanging at the end of the previous chapter as to the fate of our young hero._

 _I hope you all have a great New Year, and I shan't keep you from diving in any longer save to say that I appreciate your continued support and feedback - so feel free to leave a review and let me know how you are liking - or hating - the story._

* * *

James had never called it a gift – at least not in so many words. Perhaps he had never even intended it as such. But Holly Brooks knew, that on some level, that was exactly what he had given her when they had met, alone, in the dark, lonely hours of the night earlier that week.

She could still recall the nervousness in his eyes. The tension that was knotted in his shoulders, and whispered between them in his short, sharp breaths. She'd actually taken his hands at first, before she could stop herself. They were firm, and his palms were calloused. They'd quivered at her touch.

He'd left without a part of himself she hadn't been planning on taking. She'd seen it in the way that he carried himself as he walked away. Hunched over and closed off. Defensive. Perhaps he understood what he'd done a little better than she gave him credit for.

She didn't yet know what to do with it, this part of him he'd given to her. It was only small, but it had been personal; intimate. And she couldn't put it from her mind. It was with her everywhere she went, now. She carried it like one would an unwanted child, a bastard token of their union, but one that only she could see.

Perhaps that was why she'd gone and sought out Caspar Helstrom. Perhaps that was why she'd demanded from him such a specific price for her… services. Her talents, after all, were unrivalled. She was singular in her efficacy. It was a steep price, if one had believed him. Holly hadn't. So she'd pushed and insisted and now had a physical manifestation of that which she'd taken from James.

From her, he'd asked a mere pittance in return. A distraction easily arranged. How happy Bridget O'Flynn had been to hear that Peregrine Auteberry now wanted her back – and after his Hogsmeade date with Holly had had even the most worldly among them blushing at the details! Bridget had not asked even once about the disguise. While Peregrine himself – in a fit of purely predictable boyish idiocy – thought he was getting back at Holly by taking part. That his enthusiastic participation would upset her.

He wasn't. It didn't. Holly felt nothing as she manipulated those around her like pieces across a board, blindly using that which she had sworn off ever feeling again as a weapon. And Merlin, but its edges were keen.

The wands had been easy to steal. Taking from young men was becoming something of her forte. She'd received no word of thanks as Caspar's greasy hands snatched them from her own. She'd expected none. Only ghosted off back into the night, as her work wasn't yet done.

Lips painted black quirked up at the edges, threatening a devilish smile. She paused to hide the emotion behind her hand. If what she'd just done had been work, then what was to come was most certainly the play.

'What are _you_ doing here?'

Holly folded out from the shadows behind where Odette Mansfield had been standing sentinel over a dead-end corridor.

'How did you get there? That's impossible.'

It was the truth – for any ordinary student. But Holly Brooks was so very far from ordinary, now.

She remained silent, savouring the look of disbelief on Odette's face. Holly breathed in deeply, her body quivering, bathing in the ecstatic rush of the moment.

'Well? Are you going to speak, or just stand there like a third-year who's just learned to self-cast her first Caressing Charm?'

'You've dressed up,' Holly said in a husky voice. She gazed at Odette through heavily-lidded eyes, and paced the corridor back and forth, until it wasn't hard for her to envisage Odette as a trapped animal, backed into a corner, and she the lone wolf that stalked her.

'Get to the fucking point, Brooks.'

It was true. Green and gold. Rivers of flowing jewellery. Garments of the sheerest silk. And more honeyed skin than most would dare show. Holly enjoyed the contrast against her own plain black. And felt satisfied that the two of them were such polar and polarizing opposites.

'The only reason you're still here,' Holly purred. 'Is that you either have a hope he'll still show, or you want to hear me speak and find a lie in my words.

'Either is desperate. And, I'd have thought, far beneath you. Thus it begs the question: do you love him?'

Odette's silence brought forth another smile.

'Oh, how far you have fallen, dearest Odette.'

Odette snarled back. Exquisitely painted red lips peeled back to reveal glowing white teeth, bared at Holly. She was no sheep to be rounded up so tamely by the wolf. And she'd not go down without a fight.

'You'll never be anything, Brooks, and we both know that. Not to him, nor to me, nor to anyone at all. You'll spend your life in the shadows, hiding from everyone. Shying away from the light of the fire that the stars like us make. And if you ever try to step out, it will burn you. And leave you scarred for life.'

Holly gasped as she felt something – almost like a physical touch – lay gentle fingers upon her shoulders. She tried to shrug it off, but it had faded before she knew if she'd succeeded.

'Trying to play with Curses, Odette? Careful now, love is powerful. And makes for a strong weapon.'

Smouldering eyes regarded Holly with a burning hatred that belied the next words Odette spoke.

'You're not worth the effort, Brooks.'

'I'll enjoy the day your heart is ripped from your chest at the behest of James Potter.'

For effect, Holly blew a kiss in Odette's direction, manifesting the act as a small cloud of smoke that puffed out of existence against Odette's cheeks. Holly didn't know what to think when the act left Odette looking unsettled, shifting her shoulders and putting a hand to her breast in discomfort.

Holly's own words rang cold and clamouring in her ears: _Love is powerful._ She quickly stamped out the voice. So were other things, like hatred, and revenge. She'd not ever admit to the small nagging sensation that had burrowed into the deepest parts of her brain that said she and Odette might not have been so different, after all.

But all was forced out of thought as Odette spun on one glittering heel and stalked off in gold-drenched fury.

Though Holly had never actually said the words, the message was delivered with clarity: _James Potter isn't coming._ And let Odette read into that what she would. With any luck, it would be the addendum that _He's abandoned you._

Sure, James had begged Holly to meet with her the day _before_. Sure, he'd pleaded that she let Odette down gently, and mention that he wished he could have been there himself.

But, Holly mused, those details must have slipped her mind. And besides, if she'd done it his way, she'd never have had the satisfaction of witnessing Odette at her most vulnerable.

And if it had put a strain on Odette and James' relationship, well, that wasn't anything Holly could help now, was it?

The little voice that told her this was _exactly_ what Odette would have done was squashed ruthlessly, garrotted and tossed aside. But Holly knew that it would return. It was immortal. Undying, like all of her self-doubts were.

Apathy. That had been the gift she promised to James, months ago now. For a chance to do to Odette what had been done to her in kind. She offered James an erasing of all that had come before. Burying of the ashes that marked the bridges burned between them. An extension of the nothingness that Holly fostered within herself. An embrace, for him, of the void that lay in place of her own emotions.

She'd given him that promise in the same way he'd unknowingly given a piece of himself to her. So why, now that she could embrace it, did it all feel so wrong?

* * *

He was suspended about a half-inch off the ground. His eyes and ears and head and whole body ached. His thoughts were muddled and cloudy and slow to rearrange themselves. And so it took a little while for Fred Weasley to piece together everything that had happened up to the point of his own traps being set upon himself and Clip Wallace, who hung beside him in a similar predicament.

'Oh, the _look_ on your faces!' chortled Caspar Helstrom, gleefully. Fred scowled back, and struggled against his bonds, but he was stuck fast. He'd seen his father make these things – they were almost impossible to break.

'Fuck you, Helstrom,' Fred growled back.

'Now, now, we mustn't use bad language- _Langlock!'_

Fred grunted and strained and tried to cry out as he felt his tongue jump up and glue itself to the roof of his mouth. His breathing rushed in and out through his nose. The spell was unsettling to say the least, causing him to panic even further.

The hangers-on who had been lurking in the shadows now stepped forward, encircling Fred, Clip, and Caspar where he stood before them. They wore similar garish, overly-formal robes, which intermingled in a harsh riot of colour in no particular order. The brightness was spoiled sporadically by the sombre blacks of the Gryffindors – which irked Fred even more. _At least wear your house colours, you cowards!_

'Imagine my surprise,' Caspar gloated, ignoring Fred's grunts and dirty stares. 'When _this_ fell into my lap.'

He pulled from his pocket a familiar-looking sheet of parchment – James' terrible Transfiguration essay, onto which they'd scribbled all of their plans for this very evening.

'Now, I hadn't _really_ expected James to be a man and show his face. But I admit I underestimated both of your stupidity… handing this in to Professor Plye – my head of house. A Professor whom I can assure you has my – no wait, _our_ – best interests at heart.'

Caspar's gesture to include the group of cronies clearly left Fred and Clip out of the equation.

'Professor Plye was even kind enough to ensure that he will be the one to find the pair of you tonight. And in light of recent events, I'd imagine that being found out of bed after dark should carry a _very_ severe penalty, indeed. No matter the state you're found in.'

Most of the group chuckled at that. At least the spineless Gryffindors had the gall to look a touch uncomfortable at the prospect of losing so many House points.

Caspar began pacing in slow circles around the two of them. Walking the perimeter of what Fred bitterly termed their enclosure, so that he only came into view every so often. Fred followed him with his eyes as he moved. The times that Fred _could_ see him, he was sharing smug smiles and cocky grins with his cohort, and the occasional whispered jibe, _just_ loud enough to let Fred and Clip know he was making fun of them.

When Caspar wasn't in eyesight to scowl at, Fred made do with the pair of Ravenclaws and the older Slytherin before him. He made sure to burn their faces into his memory. Their reckoning would come.

'We're everywhere, you see,' Caspar picked up his monologue, adopting a lecturing tone that made Fred's skin crawl with hatred. 'We're in every single house. Even your own, traitorous one. We're among the Professors, the students, the Board, the Ministry. And now that Renshaw is not here for you to hide behind her skirts, we are free to seek our reckoning.'

'So brave of you to poke your heads out now that the scary Headmistress is gone.'

 _Onya, Clip._

The retort earned him the back of Caspar's hand and his own tongue-binding spell. The blow had split Clip's lip, and from the corner of his eye Fred could see blood leaking freely down his friend's chin. His slender frame looked almost childish next to the bulk of Caspar, and some of the older students around them. But his eyes remained defiant. Clip was no less Gryffindor than any of the rest of them.

'We are the Glorious Sacrifice. That which is left behind of the witches and wizards who paid with their lives so that the Chosen Few ensured themselves eternal glory. For it was not the heroes who gave up everything in the fight to destroy Voldemort. It was the faceless hundreds; the hordes sent charging into the maw of darkness so that our golden child could fight on. We are the families of the Fallen. The shattered, broken remnants left behind. The legacy of the many who died so that the few might live. We are everywhere. And we know now, that justice is beyond us. So we will make sure we have our revenge.'

 _You're fucking insane!_

Fred struggled and grunted and tried to scream. But all that he managed was a trail of drool trickling down his chin, and an angry purple flush colouring the dusky skin of his cheeks.

'For months on end, Harry Potter cowered in hiding while the Dark Lord reigned, and innocents died. Then he brought Voldemort's wrath down upon Hogwarts – a castle full of innocent children! And let their lifeblood fuel his selfish glory.'

Caspar ceased his pacing now. It had slipped Fred's notice, but all of those gathered around them were beginning to sway gently on the spot, left to right, in unison. Like a ripple of wind passing around the group. The flickering light of the few torches caused their faces to pass in and out of visibility. Perhaps it was the aftereffects of a Weasley prank, or a spell they'd learned for this very moment, but those faces seemed to flicker back and forth between masks of terror – wild beasts with snapping jaws and glowing eyes; masks of pain and rage disfigured beyond human recognition. Caspar saw the flicker of fear, and his grin grew cruel.

'We have been years in the making- oh, does that shock you, Weasley?'

Fred hastened to return the scowl to his face. The moment of shock hadn't been at Helstrom's claim, it had been at the fact that he'd just felt his right hand slip free of the invisible bonds that held it. He flexed his fingers; rolled his wrist – they were movements so small that none in the nightmare group might notice, but they were enough. Pressure began to loosen in his shoulder.

'We began from a meeting of parents standing over unmarked graves after the Battle of Hogwarts. Their tearful words first uttered our name, riven with irony and spite. Dozens, scores of parents buried their children. Brothers buried sisters, friends and lovers. While Harry Potter and Friends soaked in the praise and adoration; while they were told how _brave_ and _heroic_ they had been.'

Fred tensed his fist. This lot were clearly insane. And had been stewing on their discontent for quite some time. A dangerous combination, indeed.

'While Harry Potter paved his road to glory with the bones of the innocents, we, The Glorious Sacrifice, will make sure that his children will not do the same again. We have seen the way you hold hidden council; how the group of you trade in secrets like a currency, lying even to each other, when it suits. We see the way you seek out mystery and danger – in attempt not to share what you find, but to obscure all knowledge from outsiders. You fondle the skirts of the Headmistress in the hope that you should curry favour, and the gravitas of her own dark and terrifying past will be enough to protect you. But she is gone now, and so cannot protect you. We will not allow you to walk the same path as that of your parents. We will not lie down and let you pave it with our skulls.'

Fred had heard quite enough.

'We will,-'

 _Thump!_

Without any hint of warning, and choosing his moment when Caspar was leering right up close to the pair of them, Fred used his new-found freedom to wind up and punch Caspar in the jaw as hard as he could possibly manage. Caught unawares, Caspar's face wore a mask of unfocused shock as the force of the blow staggered him backwards.

The whole group watched in dumb silence as their leader was sent reeling, collapsing in slow motion to land firmly on his backside, and then, finally on his back. He didn't stir.

Fred had only a moment to revel in the beauty of his blow, before no fewer than a dozen spells flew in towards his location.

And when the dust finally settled, there were only two bodies in tattered Gryffindor robes left littering the remains of the third floor corridor.

* * *

The first thing James felt was an odd bobbing sensation, like he was floating in a boat at sea, only rougher. More jerky. Then the pain came, and nearly sent him back down into the abyss from whence he had just managed to surface. Waves of it coursed through his body, radiating out from where the beast had sunk its talons deep into his shoulder and chest. His entire body weight was supported in its fiendish grip. Blood seeped freely out from the punctures, and flecks and spots whipped into James' vision. He almost passed out once more as a change of direction brought for the horrifying grating of a talon grinding against bone.

He vomited, instead. He emptied the contents of his stomach, followed by a round of foamy, bloodied phlegm. He spat, feebly. The spittle and blood merely coated the side of his cheek. He struggled even to raise his head. He spied his feet dangling beneath him, kicking and flopping about uselessly. Beyond them, a dizzying drop to the bottom of the canyon loomed dark, ominous, and final. For the first time, James hoped the beast's grip was sure.

He knew not how long it had been since that _thing_ had unfolded from night itself and snatched him from the rocky clifftop. It could have been seconds, or it could have been hours. He found it a struggle even to differentiate one pain-blurred second from the next, as the beast tracked a broad, almost casual loop over the valley floor below.

Far, far beneath him, impenetrable shadows marked the blurred tops of the trees, and a glistening midnight ribbon which seemed to bottle up all the starlight from above was the river he'd noted earlier. It sparkled in and out of his vision as his head lolled. Its meandering glimmer was the only point of reference he could summon the energy to focus on.

Closer at hand, James alternated between trying to get a focus on the great, hulking body of his attacker above him, and scrunching his eyes shut at the ceaseless waves of pain.

Suddenly, there came a change in their course. The scenery below ceased its directionless spiralling. The beast now flew with focus. A direct line across the valley. Between the shattered watchers that were the craggy, limestone cliffs. With pained effort – and a determined growl that rattled out through clenched, bloodstained teeth, James lifted his head. They were approaching a whorl of deeper darkness upon the mien of the nearest cliff side.

One of his arms was stretched up over his head, tangled in the grip of the beast, twisted and useless. His other was free, and he used it to ensure his wand was still with him, wrapped up in a fold of his shirt and half jammed down his trousers – his last conscious move before the attack, and one that might just save his life yet.

He twisted his neck to keep an eye on their destination as the cave approached. It was hewn into the rock itself. Or, no. Perhaps a natural formation, as closer inspection revealed more, smaller pockmarks marring the imposing limestone façade. A whole network of caves, eaten away over centuries by the water than crisscrossed these valleys and gathered below – a network of lifeblood all flowing through to the Heart of the Forest. For James, the concentration was agony. Breath hissed through his teeth, flecks of bloodied spit flying. Something was very wrong with his right arm, and the fire in his chest was enough to consume all but the tiniest corner of his sanity, where he huddled, desperately trying to push back the maddening pain.

James braced as they came in to land. He readied his wand, tried to steady his breathing as much as possible. He'd have the time and the energy for one, final strike. It would have to be lethal. Otherwise… otherwise wasn't worth thinking of.

But only metres from the opening, James felt a sudden jerk, and above him, caught a half-glimpse of gigantic wings flaring wide. A sudden stop, a gasp torn from his throat, and a curious _tsschok_ sound that – sickeningly – James realised was the creatures claws withdrawing from his own flesh, and James found himself tossed bodily into the darkness, released by his captor.

Any chance to get a decent view at the monster was impeded by his rough landing. His good shoulder hit unforgiving rock, the jarring sending his wand flying. He rolled, collecting a face full of dust and grit and worse, before coming to rest on his back. All he managed to see was a long, sinuous tail, almost piscine but for the ridge of giant feathers that ran along its crest, disappearing from view.

James let his head fall back to the stone as the sound of beating wings faded into the distance. Any coherent plans to warn the others were weathered away from his little island of sanity by the heaving tides of pain that raged within him. What could he possibly do from here?

 _They were on their own._

To James, that fleeing of helplessness was almost as bad as the physical ache.

His eyes couldn't penetrate the deeper darkness of the cavern, stretching off to his right from where he lay. But closer by, he could see enough to confirm the blood that he felt slicking most of his torso. He raised his good hand to inspect where the wounds would be and had to fight off another round of gags as he felt his fingers slide wholly _into_ the wounds. Even to his ears, his rasping breathing sounded like a death rattle, and it felt as if each breath couldn't quite bring in enough air. His right arm, he could not feel at all. It was only an extension of the pain that lived in his chest and shoulder. When he scrabbled to push himself upright, he felt it flop down by his side, where it stubbornly refused to obey any of his mental commands.

His legs, at least, still worked. And as he drew them to his chest in order to push himself upright, he heard the tell-tale clatter of wood on stone that could only be his wand. He bent down to take it, fumbling momentarily in the murky light from distant stars. There was something reassuring about the firm, unyielding wood beneath his fingertips. The smooth, polished handle that gave off a phantom warmth that James was never quite sure was real, lent him a modicum of strength. Enough to lever himself up to his feet and make his unsteady way back to the mouth of the cave.

The stars and feeble moon offered light enough to appreciate the gravity of his situation. His cave was two-thirds of the way up one of the imposing limestone bluffs. Beneath him, a few scattered shrubs and weeds clung on for dear life to the rubbly face. Narrow, discontinuous ledges ran, almost horizontal to his left and right. Made up of some sort of rock that was finer-grained, and harder than the crumbling material all around him.

His stomach sank, and he took a step backwards. From here, there was no escape. Climbing in any direction – likely treacherous at the best of times – was downright suicidal with only one functioning arm. James squeezed his eyes shut. As if merely thinking about it had brought on another wave of agony. He backed himself up against the wall for support and bit down on his tongue until he tasted blood.

He retreated from it. It was all that he could do. James walled off the part of his mind that kept him moving. A tiny recess, enough only to fight for every next step. He could feel the pain, though, battering at his defences. A maelstrom raging within him. Driving him back and back until he felt that his little corner of sanity, much like his physical body, stood at a precipice. And it was all he could do to dig in his heels and rail against it – for he'd not let it take him without a fight.

As despair threatened to overwhelm him wholly, James felt something upon his back. A breath of wind. Coming from _behind_ him. Back up the cave. And it was fresh and clear – not stale and damp and rotten like it ought to have been. Before his brain had fully comprehended the significance of it, his body turned towards it. Fresh air meant an exit. A shot at freedom. _A way out._ And he didn't know how long he had until the damned monster came back.

One foot before the other. Push back the pain. Hold the walls.

Absolute darkness soon gathered about him on all sides. The mouldy, pungent scent that assaulted him was sickeningly sweet, and hung thick in the air around the stagnant little puddles that James' feet splashed through. The last remnant of an ancient stream, perhaps. It had died its first death long ago, and when there was nothing left of this cave and these puddles, it would die its second, one of utter finality. James tried not to dwell on the futility of its fight.

An attempted _Lumos_ spell proved almost too much. James couldn't hold the concentration for very long. His light sputtered, lasting only enough for a few halting steps at a time. Pulses of light burned the images of endless rough, rocky walls and bedded strata in to James mind over and over. The subtleties of patterns and fossils on display was lost in his haze. Progress was slow. He felt the roof closing down above his head. The passageway grew markedly narrower. Deeper pits of darkness on his left and right now spoke of other tunnels, or smaller caves. But all were lifeless and still, the very air felt rotten and lifeless. He kept the softly sighing fresh breeze upon his cheeks at all times.

He followed it around corners, over ravines, and up steep slopes. He followed it when two, three, or four similar options branched out before him. He followed it right up to the point when he realised that he wasn't alone.

' _Lumos!'_ he growled for what felt like the hundredth time. His wandtip flared momentarily, then sputtered. Little more light than a failing candle. He stumbled on a loose rock, kicking it off ahead of him and into one of the branching side corridors that were now becoming common, this far into the cave.

The rock clattered and skidded and with a faint _plunk!_ It dropped into what sounded like a deep pool of water. The burning flame of curiosity managed to pierce through the haze of James' fugue state, and he raised his wand in the direction the rock had travelled.

He felt an icy chill seep all through his body as a pair of lambent eyes stared back through the feeble light. And, there before him, in the side passage he'd assumed to be empty, sat one of the very monsters which had taken him from the clifftop.

He'd not got much of a look at the one which had snatched him. But up close, and even though his wandlight was low and sputtering, he saw more than he could have ever wanted to see of this one.

Its face was human. Or, at least, something close to human. The eyes, nose and mouth were all where they ought to have been. But there, the resemblance ended, and the beast was as frightful as anything James could have imagined.

Eyes at least twice the size of James' own glowed a molten gold, and held no discernible pupil or iris. It screeched and hissed, revealing a terrifying hinged jaw wielding multiple rows of fine, needle-like teeth as long as James' middle finger. Its skin was pale grey and stretched taut, torn and bloodied in places. Broken, bluish veins criss-crossed beneath it like a horrific road map of chaos. Across the beasts broad, muscled chest, skin transition into scales of bluish grey, and a row of long, dark, oiled feathers marched down along the beasts spine from the crown of its head up until the point where they were lost to sight beneath the inky black depths of a pool of water in which it sat.

Though perhaps less than half the beast was above water, James could tell it would stand two to three times the size of himself. Taller even, than Hagrid.

With a splash and a second, furious snarl, it lunged at James. Something flared across the entire width of the tunnel, that James recognised as giant, leathery wings, tipped with claws that glistened maliciously in the fitful light.

It sprung forth so fast that James had time only to duck in panic. He felt something massive pass by just above his head, and as it did, a part of the monster collided with his shoulder, spinning him around and throwing him to the ground as easily as he'd toss aside a Quaffle.

James' wand was thrown from his weakened grip, and the light winked out instantly. He tried to roll, but blinded, he collided with some form of stone pillar or stalagmite. The jarring blow set him writhing on the ground in agony as the pain threatened to sweep him away. The cautious, measured _click, click_ of talons on stone around him receded to become only a distant concern. The severity of the situation was forced into inconsequence by the raw, realness of the agony that gripped him.

 _Hold the walls._ It became a mantra, a dogma for James. The beast's proximity seemed to send a new wave of pain washing over him, it clutched and scrabbled with desperate, gnarled fingers. Seeking to drag him down over and again. _Hold the walls._ He pushed himself up by the strength of a single, shaking arm. _Hold the walls._ He dove to his left as the beast lunged again. The blow was cushioned by his good shoulder, but still, it provided a crack in his defences. _Hold the walls._ All that James could see were the two, glowing orbs of light that were the creature's eyes. His wand was gone. _Hold the walls._ He bent to pick up a rock. He may as well go down swinging.

And then he saw it. Emanating from his chest, beneath the final tatters of his ruined t-shirt, was a faint blue glow. The rock clattered to the ground as he tore at the locket. It had burned a hole clean through his shirt. But the scar on his chest prevented him from feeling any pain.

On instinct, he tore the chain free and held the locket aloft. The beast, mere feet away from James, and pouncing for the killing blow, suddenly reeled back in shock. Its great, leathery wings suddenly fanned wide. It hissed and spat and snarled. Lashing its long, sinuous tail violently against the rocks. The feathers down its back stood on end and it writhed about on the rocks, shrinking down as if in great pain. James bent to pick up his wand from where it lay, careful to avoid the thrashing talons of its hind legs, and darted past up into the gloom of the tunnel behind the creature.

He shuffled as fast as he could manage, with the locket alternating between lighting his way ahead, and keeping the monster at bay behind him. For it continued to stalk him as he marched deeper, and upwards through the cave. The _clack, clack_ of its claws against the stone echoed all around James, almost a taunting sort of closeness. It's rasping breath and guttural growls loomed over his shoulder at every turn, so that his nerves were soon frayed, and the flight became a march undertaken in a daze. A sort of restful stupor descending upon him. A relief in the monotony of step after step. Light ahead, and light behind. Always towards the wind. The blessed fresh air.

James stopped only after he had wedged himself through a narrow opening so tight that he had to shuffle sideways to make it. The rocks scratched at his wound with angry, hard edges. But the pain was less aggressive now, and it was instead he who was reclaiming ground, regaining back more of his consciousness, and his sanity as his walls grew and the maelstrom paled in comparison. The locket burned hot in his hand.

When the creature became vexed by the narrow passage, it opened its maw and let out a cry – _the_ cry. That baleful, horrific howl that had left them paralysed in fear all those nights before. James, behind his walls, weathered it – and the renewed assault that came with it. So that he found himself howling back, animal and raw and filled with hatred. When his throat felt ruined and torn, and the creature retreated with a snarl and a gnashing of teeth, James turned his head upward, toward the wind, and the faintest hint of light that shone through the tunnel up above.


	19. Interlude III

The barren, grey room could be paced within three steps in any direction. Featureless, stone floor was carved from a single slab of living rock. A tiny dusting of grit skittered across it, tossed about by the draft that howled in beneath the ill-fitting door, and rushed out the empty, shattered pane opposite. The rough, grainy walls were seamless, and lacked any obvious join. As if the small space had simply been hewn out of one great boulder.

Stark furniture well suited the environs. A narrow cot huddled up against one wall – the one farthest from the window and the ever-present draft. A moth-eaten blanket was perfectly folded atop the lumpy, mouldy mattress. A desk – so rotted and eaten that its survival must have been a thing of magic itself, wore only the nub of a tiny candle as dressing. No parchment or quill adorned the splintered surface.

It was only in the very centre of the room, sat atop a rickety, uneven chair, that one could find any hint of the stubborn defiance of life.

Galatea Renshaw sat the stool as if it were a throne. Her back was ramrod straight, her shoulders back. Hands – scratched and calloused, with black-painted nails chipped and marred by grit – were folded neatly in her lap. Raven hair fell about her shoulders – a foreign look for her, but she had long since lost any means to affix it into something more proper. Though her cheeks were gaunt, her eyes bruised and sunken, and she wore little more than a cloth sack, she might have been a queen at court in any other setting.

But, once-Headmistress Renshaw allowed herself to wistfully muse, she was _not_ in any other setting. She was in this one, and there currently seemed little to no chance of extricating herself from it.

She'd been dragged from her lavish rooms provided her by the French Ministére, blindfolded, and hexed into unconsciousness. She'd awoken here, with a rugged alpine view out her single window, and caressed every morning by nothing but the iciest of winds.

But this was not Nurmengard. That much, at least, she knew. The scene could be identical to any number of the cells in the prison tower, a fact that Dufour had clearly gone to great lengths to magically recreate for her.

But Dufour hadn't known that Renshaw had visited Nurmengard before – on multiple occasions. That she'd stalked these very halls like a phantom in the night. That she'd once thrown a prisoner from the highest ramparts – one that she had deemed to have known too much.

And Dufour had clearly never been, herself. Else she would have attempted to recreate the oppressive atmosphere that was the prison's signature. The heady, all-consuming scent of despair and agony that pervaded the entire tower. That seemed to eke from the very walls themselves – the featureless grey rock whispering formless words of failure – oozing sentiments of desolation from every crack and crevice. It was a sensation that she'd never felt before or since. Not as strong as the Dementors, but here, within this castle, it was a constant companion. And for some, that could be far, far worse.

It was no wonder that the narrow windows were set so thin that none could ever hope to make the jump.

The fact that Renshaw hadn't yet been imprisoned had given her hope, to start. Until weeks of neglect and malnourishment started to strip it from her day by day. She was sure that they were putting something in her food to keep her enervated and lethargic. They'd taken her wand, but she felt a more complete detachment from her magic that she'd never experienced before. Almost like she was forgetting what it was like to be a witch; the feel of casting a spell, and having that power dancing at her fingertips. She felt now, that she could only remember a shadow of it. Like someone describing the sensation to her, rather than it having been something she'd ever actually experienced.

But now, today, for the first time, she had received world that Valerie Dufour was coming to see her. And so, despite cramping stomach and muddled thoughts, Galatea Renshaw presented herself to receive her.

The door was suddenly flung open, crashing against the wall with force enough to make Renshaw – irritatingly – flinch. Dufour swept in wearing a long, sky-blue dress and matching jacket. She sported a lace-edged scarf against the chill, and long, pale gloves covered her fingers. The crest of Beauxbatons was embroidered in thread-of-gold upon the backs of each. As if the outfit wasn't a message enough already.

Renshaw didn't stand, only swept her arms wide as if welcoming Dufour into a grandiose office over which she presided. 'Welcome.'

Dufour sniffed her indignation and regarded Renshaw with cold eyes. Tiny creases at the edge of her eyes and mouth spoke to her disapproval as much as her age. Though, in the latter, they were merely a mirror for Renshaw. The pair of them were separated by just a few weeks, after all.

'I see you have made yourself comfortable in your new accommodation,' Dufour sneered.

'The view is quite breathtaking,' was Renshaw's level reply.

Dufour drew herself up a chair, with a flamboyant flourish of her gilt-encrusted wand. It was a great, golden throne, littered with diamonds and sapphires depicting, once again, the crest of Beauxbatons. Renshaw couldn't hide her distaste, and felt her lip curling. Dufour was getting extravagant in her age, it seemed. And stupid.

'Well I'm sure you'll have plenty of time to take it all in.'

'I only hope the real thing is just as stunning.' _I can see through your petty lies, you Banshee._

The subtle twitching of Dufour's eyes was satisfaction enough for Renshaw.

'I wouldn't know; I've never spent a lifetime confined there. You'll have to write and tell me.'

This time, it was Renshaw's turn to scowl.

'So have you just come to gloat, Valerie, or is there a purpose to your visit?'

'Well, a little of both, if I'm honest,' Dufour purred. She crossed her legs and leaned forward, regarding Renshaw with what could only be described as a predatory gaze. 'They've set the date for your court appearance, you see. The first Monday in June. I'm counting down already.'

'And you plan to leave me in this dungeon until then?' Renshaw countered. She cursed herself for being unable to completely hide the quaver of trepidation in her voice.

Valerie Dufour heard it, and laughed a loud, musical laugh, tossing her head back as if Renshaw had just told the funniest of jokes. 'Oh Galatea, of course we will. Don't think for a _moment_ that I'll give you an inch on _anything_. You'll eat what I feed you, drink what I give you, and piss when I tell you, so that come June you'll be positively _begging_ to head to Nurmengard, because they'll treat you better than I do.'

It took every ounce of Renshaw's self-control to not let her rage take over. It flared hot and bright within her, and she felt a colour rising in her cheeks, one that had been absent for weeks in this greyed-out hell.

'When I'm free – _when,_ not if – I'm going to hunt you down and make you pay for all of this, Dufour. For this, now, and for what you did when we were young.'

'Oh, but Galatea, do you not see? They are one and the same. Things never ended. I have never rested, simply waited for the opportune moment to get to you. I've spent years building my retinue, ensuring the right people are in the right places, so that anything I say shall become law, so that I would be prepared to oppose you when you resurfaced. As I always knew you would.'

Renshaw's eyes narrowed. She sucked in a long, wavering breath. It caused the roughspun tunic that was her only clothing to slide off her shoulder, tribute to her thinning frame. 'This isn't about the horses in the slightest.'

'I'm disappointed that it has taken you this long to arrive at the conclusion.'

Renshaw tried to piece it all together, but her mind was so sluggish. Whatever it was that they were drugging her with left her mind a tangled quagmire of untethered thoughts and questions that she couldn't quite grab the answers to. 'The young girl… Ghyslaine Lucas. She's more than just a favourite student.'

'A favoured student with a terrible secret that I happen to also possess. She's frightfully ambitious. It's no trouble at all to ensure her loyalty, when upon my lips rests the fate of her entire career.'

 _Blackmail._ Not unlike the Dufour of old, Renshaw knew. She'd used it to nearly shatter their alliance before it even began. Renshaw should have killed her then.

'And the old pair?'

'Samuel Savatie, and Loretta Daviau. Once political outcasts, now the pinnacle of the Beauxbatons board, and invited to every secret meeting from Calais to Marseille. _Strongly_ anti-British, anti-Muggle, anti-anything that isn't French, magical, and steeped in illustrious history. In their eyes your guilt was sealed by the mere occurrence of your birth.'

Renshaw nodded as she stored the information away. She could do little with it now – her concentration was fading. This was more physical exertion than she'd endured in weeks, and the diet they fed her left her so, so weak. But it was all information that she could use against them. She'd need to get word to Wren…

'I'm surprised you hadn't done the same,' Dufour continued, interrupting Renshaw's thoughts. 'Stumbling into that role at Hogwarts. Did you truly not expect me to be lying in wait? And imagine my delight at your stupidity when you invited us to your school! Your arrogance will be your downfall Galatea. Or rather, it _has been_ your downfall.'

Renshaw's smile was a twisted thing. She bared her teeth at Dufour. 'An effort that would take years, had I the desire. Any competent function of the British Ministry is so mired and weighed down by bureaucracy that it is rendered just about useless.'

'Ah, yes. Bureaucracy. Perhaps the most effective defence against infiltration ever developed. Walls of parchment can be more effective than those of brick or stone.'

Renshaw stayed silent, but inwardly smiled. Dufour, in her own show of conceit, knew nothing of what Rensahw had done already.

'You won't… stop this,' Renshaw growled. She changed the subject. Little time was left to her, now. Her breathing was becoming laboured, but she kept her back straight and glared at Valerie Dufour with defiance. 'What we started, all those years ago… what we _discovered._ Just because you chose to turn your back on it, doesn't mean it will go away. Ignorance is not a plan of action.'

Dufour stood, and her throne vanished in a puff of silver smoke. 'And neither is tearing the world apart to heal an incurable wound. And a _theoretical_ one, at that!'

'Your refusal to accept the evidence by no means makes it false!' Renshaw roared, her chest heaving. She leapt to her feet, coming face to face with Dufour. 'Your wilful ignorance is a crime that will be paid for in magical blood, Valerie. In _our_ blood!'

'I have heard enough!' Dufour cut in, 'to convince myself that you remain as much of a threat to all wizardkind as you were all those years ago. And I look forward to the day when we will all be free of the threat that you pose, for good.'

She spun on her heel, but Renshaw didn't stop there.

'The Oath we took will kill you!' she spat. 'And we both know it! There's no way to lie your way out of that.'

The door swung shut and slammed in Renshaw's face.

'The others won't stand for it! Egil will be marshalling forces even now! The others, they- they'll be back. They won't let this happen!'

But that last, at least, Renshaw knew as a lie. The "others" would never be back. Only she, Dufour and Egil Beck remained. Renshaw herself had seen to that, in those dark, storm-filled nights following the final fracturing of their group. Insane, imprisoned, or turned to dark magic, Renshaw had made sure that their secret remained safe. Egil, she had trusted. And possibly still did. As for Dufour, well, she had always been one step ahead of Renshaw's efforts – the true reason she had needed to flee to the Americas all those years ago.

As Galatea Renshaw collapsed back into her cot, exhausted and shaken, her eyes fixed on a mark upon the ceiling that she hadn't remembered seeing before. She peered closer, pushing herself up again on shaking arms. A set of initials were carved into the rock: _R.S.D,_ followed by a span of dates, only a few weeks long. With her heart suddenly racing in her chest, Renshaw clambered to her feet and rushed to the window, adrenaline giving her a burst of energy she hadn't possessed only seconds ago.

Out the narrow window the rocky mountainside suddenly seemed hauntingly familiar, in a way it hadn't before today. Perhaps it had been the memory she had conjured up just now; perhaps Dufour had changed the view herself as part of the visit. But Renshaw knew with sudden clarity, that this cell was a mirror image of the one in Nurmengard which had housed one of their number, captured, marking the beginning of the end for their group. A member whom Renshaw had visited one stormy night, and tossed hundreds of feet into the chasms below, from the very roof of this room – or at least its brother in the real Nurmengard tower.

It was an act that Renshaw had been certain nobody but herself had known. She'd gone to excruciating lengths to cover up the act. But yet again, Dufour appeared to be one step ahead of her.

Renshaw's scream echoed off the walls and sounded mocking even to her own ears.


	20. Jackets

'I swear on Godric's sword, Fred. If you fart in here _one more_ time, I'm going to dangle you out this window by your innards.'

'I can't help it!'

'You ate damn near three whole plates of beans for dinner!'

'You know I like those spicy ones they make on Wednesdays…'

The Gryffindor boys' dormitory was abandoned, but for Fred Weasley, the offender, Clip Wallace, the outraged, and Tristan Macmillan, who'd taken to breathing through the sleeve of his jumper.

This was unsurprising, as seven floors below them, dinner was in full swing, and a special assembly had been called following dessert – one that required the attendance of all the students.

James Potter, the fourth and final member of the group, lay in his bed. He was propped up on a mountain of pillows, his skin pale and drawn, his expression sickly – even prior to Fred's most recent gaseous enfilade. He poked at a sausage with a fork, but the plate that his friends had brought him largely remained untouched. He was yet to eat a full meal all week.

'I'm not hungry,' he croaked, eventually shoving the plate away.

'I don't blame you, mate.' Tristan's voice was muffled through three folded layers of his jumper.

Clip, fresh from shoving Fred off the foot of James' bed, was less consoling. 'At least eat your epazote herb. Hagrid and your father said one bunch with each meal.'

James' groan was a feeble thing. 'Can't I just go to Madam Petheridge…'

'You all know that we can't, mate.' Clip consoled, while waving a fistful of the hateful stuff under James' nose. ' _Nobody_ can find out what we were up to in the Forest. As Fred and I proved – we can't even trust the professors.'

'Not to mention _Harry Potter_ ordered us not to,' Tristan unhelpfully added. There was just a touch of reverence in his tone, reserved for referencing James' father.

 _Stupid Boy-Who-stupid-Lived_. James snatched the herb and shoved it into his mouth, scowling at all three of them. Despite his weakened state, he chewed as stubbornly as possible.

'When you're done chewing,' Fred offered, returning to his perch at the foot of James' bed, 'we'll help you down to the Great Hall. If you're up to it.'

James sighed around his bitter mouthful but nodded. Though the truth was that he probably _wasn't_ up to it. And he hadn't been since Tristan had found him lying bloodied and unconscious on the Forest floor, following his tussle with the golden-eyed monsters.

Three cracked ribs, a punctured lung, dislocated shoulder, broken bones in his upper and lower arms, as well as a host of lesser cuts and bruises were just the beginning of James' list of injuries. Not to mention the three puncture wounds on his chest where the beast's talons had pierced his skin. Along with the sunburst scar from Rain's locket, his chest was starting to become a well-populated area when it came to scarring.

Everything that his battered body had borne, had been frantically healed before sun-up by Harry and Hagrid in the shadowy confines of the latter's dingy hut. While Tristan and Cat ran to find this herb or that salve or a veritable mountain of bandages pilfered from the Healer's stores. But though Harry was a powerful wizard, and Hagrid knew more about bush-remedies than anybody in the castle, the pair hadn't been able to completely rid James of the entirety of his ailments – most notably, what seemed to be some sort of poison that must have tipped the beasts claws. It meant that, though his wounds were visibly gone, and the worst of the marks Healed away, his body still felt like he'd been dropped from the seventh-story balcony. A dull ache echoed every heartbeat, breathing was laborious and painful, and moving his shoulder and arm remained agony. As if his body hadn't yet figured out that it was Healed yet.

The result had meant that, for the past four days and nights, James Sirius Potter had been a mere ghost of himself, coasting through lessons with little to no input, present only in the physical sense. Every free period and mealtime was spent in his bed, resting from the mere effort of making his way through the castle. His friends saw to his homework and deflected any and all questions about his wellbeing. Cassie was brewing him no fewer than a half dozen different potions in her own attempt to combat the poison. Some of which, she'd abused her Restricted Section privileges to acquire. She'd near fainted on the spot when Tristan – whom she'd brought along – tore out the relevant pages from each of the books as she identified which ones she'd need.

Tristan and Cassie had needed to sit at opposite ends of the table form one another, from then on.

And so, what was very nearly the ghost of James Potter was restricted to being force-fed by his friends and made to eat his greens every night because he hadn't the energy to face a proper Hogwarts mealtime.

'Tastes like piss,' he grumbled, as he finally swallowed the last of the epazote herb, a scowl on his face.

'Now I don't like to speculate on just what you and Miss Mansfield get up to in your spare time,' Tristan began. 'But I'd be curious to know just _how_ you know what piss tastes like…'

James mustered just enough energy to throw a pillow in Tristan's direction.

'Speaking of things that leave a sour taste in your mouth,' Fred added. 'She came up to me this afternoon, Mansfield did. Looking for you. She's on a warpath. Whatever you did to assuage her last Friday must have gone about as well as Clip and I did.'

James groaned, sinking back into his pillows and staring up at the ceiling – great, just what he needed. Holly had _promised_ him, as well. So much for her word…

'We're really sorry about that, by the way,' Clip mumbled, looking a little sheepish. 'About the Caspar thing, and losing your Chaser's Glove. I know how important it was to you.'

'That's fine,' James said, swallowing the bitter taste in his mouth that had nothing to do with the herb. 'How were we to know a bloody _professor_ would betray us. It was my fault for leaving our plans on that bloody essay. We need to learn to be more cautious. _Everyone_ is watching us.'

'Feel a bit exposed without Renshaw around,' Fred nodded.

'Funny, never thought I'd miss the old bird,' Tristan said, shaking his head. 'What with most of second year spent adamant that she was trying to have us murdered.'

'She'll be back,' James assured them in his raspy voice. Outside, the clock tolled eight o'clock, and the opening of the school-wide assembly.

'Before we head down,' Tristan said to the group, his expression switching back to the sombre and serious. 'I've got something I've been meaning to show you, now that we're all together.'

From the back pocket of his jeans, he produced a faded, tattered and torn scrap of parchment. It had a large tear in the centre of the page, and only two words were scrawled upon it: " _We know."_ Underneath, it was signed " _GS"._

All four of them stared at it for a while in silence. The final toll of the clock rang out and faded into the gathering night.

'I was the first back to Hagrid's, the night we went into the Forest, James. I scouted the way back after we found you. I'd ran ahead to fetch more water from the hut. This note was stuck into the door with a knife.'

James just shook his head; his tired mind was unable to think of any classmates with the initials G.S.

'Shit,' Fred swore. His own dusky features had taken on a sickly grey to match James' pale ones. 'Shit on a Puffskein.'

'I'd rather not…' Clip ventured.

But Fred didn't answer. Instead, he pushed himself up and started pacing the room. 'Grab the cripple, and I'll tell you all about it on the way down to the Great Hall. But I've got a feeling we're in more trouble than any of us had thought.'

By the time the four descended the Grand Staircase and arrived in the Entrance Hall, the school assembly was well underway. They'd passed not a single student during their slow, laborious descent. James' face was white as a sheet, his teeth were clenched and his breath was shallow and ragged. He needed to pause on the flagstones for a moment to regain his strength. Not for the first time, he cursed those golden-eyed monsters, and swore he'd make them pay.

'So let me get this right,' Tristan whispered. Though there appeared no chance of their being overheard. Voices were drifting out of the doors to the Great Hall, just barely left ajar. The sliver of light that eked out along with the noise ended right at James' feet. 'This _Glorious Sacrifice_ group that left the note on Hagrid's door is Caspar's bunch of nutters, and there are dozens of them out to get us, _including_ some of the professors?'

'Correct,' Clip nodded.

'And now they somehow know _something_ about what we've been up to in the Forest, but we don't know _how much_ they know, only that they know enough to know we were out Friday night and we wouldn't know who knew to put the note there.'

'Uh-huh.'

Tristan was starting some mild hyperventilation by this point, and borrowed a move from James, in running a hand through his blond locks.

'C'mon,' James mumbled. 'Let's get inside. Watching Tristan panic is just going to make me feel more ill.'

'Oh, I'm not panicking. This isn't panic. Is it panic to find out that you're a dead man walking? I don't think so. This is calm resignation. That's all. A man marching to his grave. Bury me next to someone pretty, will you?'

Fred cuffed him over the ear as the group surrounded James – now walking under his own power – and approached the doors to the Great Hall.

'… assessing the needs of this great School on a _fundamental_ level, across all streams of education…'

James frowned at the unfamiliar voice as the boys slunk through the narrow gap in the giant doors. The house tables were packed to bursting, so that students were having to sit on each other's laps in places. But each and every student was deathly quiet. Their attention was focused up towards the staff table, where four unfamiliar figures stood upon the dais, in front of the staff table, spaced at regular intervals along the length.

They all wore identical uniforms – a strange jacket that was tight-fitting across the chest and waist, but flared out over the hips in a long sort of tail that reached down to the knees. They all wore snug black trousers and heeled boots polished so bright that they glimmered with torchlight, their silver buckles spreading coy winks out across the room. Large, stiff collars framed the faces of the two males, while folds of black silk cowls bunched around the necks of the two women, gathered like a scarf. All four bore identical emblems embroidered onto their breasts.

And all four had stopped to look at the boys, the man standing centre-left trailed off from his speech.

'Shit,' Fred swore.

'The Ministry,' Clip groaned.

'Can I panic _now?'_ Tristan asked.

A rustling of robes and a growing murmur as the entire school turned to face the distraction. Up at the staff table, James just managed to see Professor Longbottom with his face in his hands. James felt his cheeks flush as a thousand pairs of eyes fixed upon the four of them, and whispers blew through the onlookers like leaves across pavement.

'Silence!' barked the man who had been speaking. He was tall, broad shouldered and square-jawed. A few flecks of grey marred the stubble that darkened his chin. He spoke with a confidence that indicated he was used to being obeyed.

'A shame,' hummed the lady standing centre-right, drawing out the 'M' sound into an almost musical note. She was nearly as tall as the man, with impossibly long legs, chilling blue eyes, and lustrous golden hair that fell well below her waist. 'I'd been under the impression we were speaking to the entire student body… for the benefit of those who missed it, I suppose we must start over again.'

She did it a second time, drawing out the final syllable as if she were ruminating on more to say. Her fading voice was quickly drowned out by the groans of a thousand-odd students whose expressions swiftly changed from curious to surly and resentful.

The four boys hurried to find themselves a seat at the end of their respective house tables.

'As we were saying, prior to the interruption,' the man continued. 'We four are Senior Witches and Wizards from the Department of Magical Education, Learning and Discipline, and we have been tasked with righting the floundering vessel that is Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardy. I am Chief Researchwizard of Educational Discipline, Alabaster Shelby, and this is Undersecretary to the Minister and Chair of Educational Reform, Calantha Merriweather.'

The golden-haired witch raised a slender hand in greeting.

Shelby didn't even introduce the two figures who stood on the flanks, neither titles nor names for either. One a witch, one a wizard. They were both older than he and Calantha, with more grey than black in their hair. They wore the identical strange jackets, and were similarly built – slender, of moderate, but similar height, with sloping shoulders and wide, dark eyes. Eyes that roamed the room constantly. James felt the gaze of the older wizard pass over him, and could hardly repress a shudder. It was a calculating gaze. As if in that moment alone he'd been able to take the measure of James as a man and a wizard, as if his prowess and failing hovered above his head in a series of numbers or symbols. As if the man knew him better than any but himself.

Beside him, he felt Clip and Fred shift uncomfortably in their seats.

'The loss of Headmistress Renshaw was deeply regrettable,' Shelby continued.

'As _if,'_ hissed Fred.

James silently agreed. None of the four seemed in the least regretful.

'But it is a hard fact with which we must accustom ourselves to. And thus it has been with much deliberation and heavy hearts, that the Ministry – _your_ Ministry – has decided to craft this dynamic steering committee to right the ship, and get the wind back in the sails of this great and prestigious school.'

' _Mmm_ any of you must have cause for concern,' Calantha Merriweather purred in her strange way of speaking. 'But rest assured that we act only with your best interests at heart. Your _Mmm_ inistry has chosen to take a more direct approach in the learning and intellectual nourishment of our future generations, and new laws are being drafted whereby we shall take on responsibility for appointment of all staff, including the Headmistress position, as well as systematic and regular review of curriculum, learning environment and current faculty.'

Upon the last, there was a few nervous twitches up along the staff table.

'Merlin, but Caspar is looking like a smug prick right now,' Fred gestured over to the Ravenclaw table. James joined in in flashing him a two-fingered salute beneath the table.

'Merriweather is his mother,' an older student leaned in and told them. James and Fred shared an incredulous look. Clip groaned audibly.

'Guess I can see where he gets that sour, snooty look from. Looks like she's been sucking on lemons all evening.'

A small cough from the older wizard by Calantha's side, and she broke off mid-sentence, pausing to survey the crowd with a cold smile that didn't meet her eyes.

'Is it possible you have something to share _mmm_ ister…' she shared a brief moment of eye contact with the older wizard here. '… Weasley?'

'Nah-uh,' Fred shook his head animatedly.

' _Iterum duum!'_ without warning, Shelby barked a spell, jabbing his wand in Fred's direction. James felt his eyes widen, and joined in the rest of the room in their collective gasp, as Fred's spoke in a strangled, choking voice.

' _Guess I can see where he gets that sour, snooty look from. Looks like she's been sucking on lemons all evening.'_

A few bold students gave a snicker. James caught Caspar glaring murder at the pair of them.

'Up,' barked Shelby. Fred sprang upright in his seat. His eyes were wild and terrified. 'Weasley, is it? Go stand in the corner like the little child you are.'

Fred marched stiffly to the corner of the room, watching out with a baleful glare.

'Oh, _nnn_ o, dearie,' Calantha said, twirling her finger in a circle.

As if he were attached to strings, Fred spun, facing the corner of the room. The scattering of chuckles now was directed at him.

'If you're going to be no good as a student, _boy,_ then we'll have to find some other use for you. Here, hold onto this.'

And without warning, Shelby levitated a large vase that decorated the mantle of one of the fireplaces over and down atop Fred's head. It sat there, wobbling precariously as Fred quivered with anger.

The chuckles now turned to outright laughter, Caspar leading the effort. James clenched his fists so hard he felt his nails digging into flesh.

Up at the staff table, none of the teachers moved to stop Shelby's efforts. Only Professor Longbottom's lips were pressed into a thin line, his eyes guarded and face dour. Professor Meadows was actually laughing along, herself. Although, in fairness it had been less than a week since Fred had strapped a half dozen dungbombs to a stray toad and let it lose inside her office. James hoped _that_ was the only reason she was laughing.

' _Nnn_ ow I do fear I've lost track all together,' Calantha drawled. 'I suppose we must start again _nn._ '

The entire school groaned as one. No few death-glares were sent Fred's – and even James' – way.

Alabaster Shelby, together with Calantha Merriweather, spent the next hour re-outlining how the four of them were to be a constant presence around the Castle. How they would be attending lessons, Quidditch practice, club meetings. How they would be dropping in to common rooms to have "candid conversation", or how they would be _recommending_ certain methods of teaching, class structure and, of course, discipline.

Throughout it all, James felt his throat growing tighter, and a cold feeling radiating within his stomach. The Ministry had arrived at Hogwarts.


	21. Dismissed

James Potter smiled as half a thousand voices cheered the sound of his name. As the wind teased and tugged at his flyaway hair. As the rush of cold air stung his cheeks and nose and set his eyes to watering. He smiled at the firm, reassuring handle of his Nimbus Model One broomstick beneath his fingertips, and the reassuring weight of his Gryffindor Quidditch jersey upon his shoulders.

But the smile didn't reach his eyes.

It wasn't fair, he seethed, that after everything he'd been through in the past few weeks, not even Quidditch was able to give him that sense of freedom and release to scrub away all of his worries.

What, with the Ministry entourage breathing down his neck at every turn, Caspar strutting around the corridors like a peacock with his tail up, and Odette Mansfield shooting him loaded, baleful glares whenever their eyes met, it was a wonder he had made it this far at all without breaking down completely.

And then there was the phantom pain that refused to recede. It made even keeping a grip on his broomstick a struggle. Throwing a Quaffle was agony. Like his body didn't know it had been healed, his arm and shoulder still ached. He'd had to re-bandage the wounds on his chest, as they'd re-opened at the slightest aggravation.

He tried to shrug it off, as Declan Hawksby blew his whistle to start the match. He tried to ignore the nagging worries as he fought for control of his broom in the buffeting winds, and squinted against the sleet that began driving in from over the Lake. He pretended not to see the meaningful glance Odette had sent his way, as she whipped by over his shoulder in the hunt for the Snitch.

But the elation just wasn't there. Too much else crowded in its place.

James tried to throw everything he had at the match, instead. He dove in on his broomstick to secure the Quaffle, signalling with his free hand for Preston Lynch to push up the left flank. James shadowed him, holding one arm up to shield his eyes, as he steered his broomstick with only his knees. The wind hammered and buffeted him, threatening to throw him off balance, hurling fistfuls of driving rain and sleet into his face that stung his frozen cheeks.

His move drew attention of the Slytherin defenders. They drifted to James' left, anticipating the attack from that flank. With a subtle gesture missed by most, James sent Abbey hurtling across the face of the green-robed defenders, dropping a pass off to her as she streaked by – a smudge of red-and-gold against the grey haze.

The Slytherins about-faced, panicking at leaving their flank exposed. James smiled, just as he'd guessed they would. Abbey took the pressure, receiving an elbow to the ribs from Collette Malkin for her efforts, but returning the favour with a shoulder to the jaw that left her dazed, and her teammates crying for a foul. A quick behind-the-back pass to James, which he shovelled on to Preston – now all-but forgotten to James' left, allowed him a one-on-one opportunity with the Slytherin Keeper, and he slotted the goal through the centre hoop with a smooth execution of the Finnish Flick.

James pumped his fist, feeling some of that pent-up anger dissipate in the form of excited energy. Now this was something he _could_ revel in.

Slytherin's counter-attack off the restart was fast and angry, embarrassed at ceding a goal so quickly. The rain pelted James' face, slowly turning every inch of his exposed flesh numb. The cold settled in to the bones of his shoulder, the ache becoming a constant companion, stiffening his movements. His fingers were stinging – the fingerless gloves he wore doing little to keep life in his extremities. Not for the first time that day, he wished for the Chaser's Glove that Caspar Helstrom had taken from him. His arm – already damaged – felt naked and exposed without it.

Preston Lynch pressured Tennyson Braithwaite, who took the Quaffle from the Slytherin Keeper. He tossed a wide pass towards Collette Malkin which held up in the strong wind. Sensing an opportunity, James broke formation to contest the fifty-fifty throw. He collided hard with Collette, their bodies momentarily interlocking in a desperate flailing of limbs and growling of curses. He was spun roughly around, having to yank on his broomstick to avoid collision with the stands. He heard the onlookers gasp – their voices almost imperceptible over the howling gale. Any cheers or further noise was torn away the moment he passed by.

James wheeled around hard. Beaten for possession, he had to fight to chase down the Slytherin Chaser. They had a numbers advantage, as he'd left a gaping hole in the Gryffindor defence with his risky play.

But thankfully, Fred had already seen the breach. First one, then a second bludger whizzed past James' shoulder, humming almost gleefully as both found their marks – one into Collette's lower back, and one into her elbow. The second caused her to spill the Quaffle, and James ducked down to secure it, pulling up just in time to skim his toes across the snow-laden pitch.

Down low, the wind was less severe, shelter afforded them through the hulking masses of the stadiums. He could hear the faint cheers, and flashes of colour caught his eye through the swirling, monotonous grey. He ducked as an umbrella careened past him, torn free from the grip of some hapless spectator.

Abbey pulled in close to his right, body-checking a Slytherin Chaser on an intercepting path and knocking him clean off his broom into a muddy puddle near centre-field. This time, James had no problem hearing the outraged cries from the supporters in silver and green, and a few boos started to emanate from the D.L Malfoy stand.

James popped a short pass to Abbey, and flew up ahead to return the favour. As he struck out before Abbey, he held a hand up over his head, signalling to his team. If they had replied, he couldn't hear it over the wind, nor see it through the driving rain, but he didn't need to – their discipline was supreme.

He took a blocking line in front of Abbey. Jen Redfern fended off a Slytherin Chaser with a well-placed Bludger, and he narrowly avoided joining his teammate down on the turf. With just the Keeper to beat, James eased back on his broom, slowing down and rearing up, making himself as large as possible as he and Abbey both approached the goals.

At the last possible second, Abbey fired her shot from barely a foot behind James' position, where he sat obscuring her from the Keeper's view. Unable to react in time, the shot sailed through the left goal hoop completely uncontested. And Gryffindor doubled their lead.

The manoeuvre came at a price, however, as James was unable to stop quite in time, and he collided with the burly Slytherin Keeper. His right arm got caught between the Keeper's shoulder and his own chest, and he heard a nauseating crunch as something gave way in his wrist.

James disentangled himself, cradling his wrist and barely managing to save himself from a topple down to the deck. The boos were even louder up this end of the stadium.

'James, are you okay?' Abbey called through the storm. Her long, dark hair was plastered to her face from the rain and sleet, and blood from a cut on her lip appeared to have frozen already.

'Fine,' he lied in response.

Fred made his way over, concern plain on his features. He shot James a thumbs-up with a questioning look. James' attempt to return it with his damaged hand made the severity of the injury plain.

'Hit the bench, James!' Abbey yelled, pulling in next to him and grabbing a fistful of his robe for support. She had to huddle close to be heard. 'Zee can come on. You need to heal up.'

'Not bloody likely,' James growled, breaking the contact and returning to position as the match resumed.

James used his knees and his left hand to guide the broomstick. His right, he tucked in close to his body. _Give it time,_ he thought. _It'll come right._ He hoped it was just a stinger, made worse by the biting cold. He tried to move his fingers again as he chanced a brief look down. No response.

High, up ahead, Al and Odette could only rarely be seen, circling the pitch in opposite directions, trying in vain to catch a glimpse of gold through the weather.

Ahead of him, the Slytherins were attacking up the right wing. A second Chaser flew a parallel line, near the centre of the pitch, with the third member sitting a little way off their shoulder. James could see the move they were going to pull almost as if he'd designed the play himself. Attacking the flank aggressively enough to draw attention – and sure enough Preston Lynch took off in that direction – then the lightning-quick pass to the Chaser in centre field to disorient the defenders. But it would be the third flier, the one sitting slightly back and inboard that would take the shot, receiving the Quaffle after a gentle inward flick of a pass from the Chaser in centre-field. The Gryffindor defenders, already caught off balance, would be helpless to stop it, and they'd have a one-on-one against Carina.

James tucked down low against his broom and raced up, timing his intersection perfectly so that as the second pass was made, he was right there to grab it. On instinct, he reached out his right hand to grab hold of the Quaffle-

 _Whack!_

Unseen and unaccounted for, a Bludger hammered into his outstretched arm, sending blinding pain washing over James. Sparks danced in his vision, and it was all he could do to keep hold of his broom, as he lost control and for a moment the wind threatened to dash him into the side of the stands.

But Fred arrived at his side, grabbing James' robe in a vice-like grip and steadying him against the raging storm. A cheer from the Malfoy stand meant that Slytherin had scored their goal, and James swore violently, blaming himself for the lapse.

'Bench. _Now._ ' Fred growled, physically manoeuvring James up to where the Gryffindor reserve team was waiting. Zanthia Fisher was mounting her broom on the take-off platform already.

'I'm fine,' James protested through gritted teeth.

'Bullshit.'

Abbey and Preston both arrived to help Fred drag James from the field. He cursed and swore at them most of the way, but his protests were feeble; he knew he was in no fit state. Zanthia gave him a one-armed hug as she took off, and a promise that she'd 'make the bastards pay.'

Back in the reserves booth, James angrily tossed his broomstick aside and threw himself into the chair bearing his name. He'd never been pulled from a match before in his life. His father had played on with a _broken arm_ in his own second year. James winced as he ran his hand through his hair in frustration, pushing the dripping locks out of his eyes. He could even move his fingers again, now.

The anger was back. The Quidditch had barely kept it at bay, and now even that was taken from him. James felt waves of it building up as frustrated energy. He wanted to lash out and kick something. Out on the pitch, Zanthia and Abbey Fisher completed a complex series of passes that wove through the Slytherin defenders and ended in another goal. Instead of cheering, James ground his teeth. It should be _him_ out there doing that.

He got up and started pacing back and forth through the reserved area. The rest of his teammates gave him a wide berth and averted their gaze as he ranged up and down their little booth in the front row of the stand. Out on the pitch, another cheer went up as Preston scored another goal. James clenched his fist.

'Oi, Potter, you make a better door than a window, sit down!' an older Ravenclaw called from the crowd.

James rounded on him. 'You stick a fucking sock in it four-eyes, or I'll come up there and shut you up myself!'

A hush fell over the crowd around him, those that had heard his outburst. For a moment, all James could hear was the wild wind rushing in his ears, and the rain hammering against the roof of the stand. James' chest was heaving. His heart was still racing, fuelled by anger and adrenaline. He spun angrily away just in time to see Preston score yet another goal, and the crowd behind him snapped to their senses.

It made James feel worse and worse as Gryffindor stretched the lead so swiftly after his exit from the game. As Abbey and Zee Fisher set up goal after goal, James had to wonder if he'd have been able to pull it off. There was something instinctive about the way the twin girls played together that he'd never be able to match. The self-doubt only served to fuel another round of pacing back and forth in the Gryffindor booth.

Though he was fuming, James was still enough aware of the match proceedings to know that Gryffindor were only one hundred forty points ahead when Odette went into a breathtaking dive high above the Slytherin goal hoops.

James sprinted to the barrier and grabbed the railing fiercly, ignoring the pain that lanced up his right arm and through his shoulder. _This_ was more important. This was Quidditch.

It was clear from the start that Odette had a far better angle on the Snitch than Al did. He had been around midfield, whilst Odette had been hovering almost directly over it. Despite all of his planning and preparation, his study of notes and identification of the most efficient route to fly in order to see the Snitch, it had come down to sheer, dumb luck that it had appeared closer to Odette than he.

Jen rocketed a Bludger in Odette's direction, the crowd gasped – and even James had to give grudging appreciation – as she twirled beautifully upon her broom – mid dive, in fact – to send it skimming over her left shoulder. Fred followed up with another, perfectly placed, but instead of slowing her descent, she simply corkscrewed around it and continued rocketing towards the earth at full speed.

It was breathtaking flying by anyone's standards. James couldn't quite decide whether he was in awe, furious, or aroused as he watched Odette's figure flatten down atop her broom and shallow out the dive as the Snitch tore off up the pitch, away from her.

Carina sensed the urgency and gave a signal to the team. A signal that James knew well. It was the sign to start their top-secret desperation manoeuvre titled the Snake Snatcher, designed by Carina specifically for this moment – should they need a sure-fire goal with only seconds to score.

James banged his fist upon the railing in frustration. He'd put hours of practice into this move, he desperately wanted to be the one down there orchestrating it. He turned away from the match for a second, squeezing his eyes tight shut as he felt the waves of anger building up again, that volatile energy surging through his limbs, the desire to strike out almost overwhelming. Around him, the crowd gasped, then screamed, then roared in shock or admiration.

When James opened his eyes again he saw the aftereffects of the Gryffindor's manoeuvre. Two Slytherin Chasers were locked together in a tangle of limbs, spinning around in furious circles at midfield as they desperately tried to untie themselves from one another. Abbey Fisher – the designed sacrifice – was a bundle of feebly stirring robes down upon the muddy grass. Carina had left her goal hoops entirely, there was a large scorch march marring the façade of the Hufflepuff stand, and Preston Lynch, trailing a streamer of blood visible even through the driving rain, was one-on-one with the Keeper, just as Odette was about to close on the Snitch.

Or so James had thought.

Appearing from a deeper pocket of swirling grey like a wraith of the mist, was Collette Malkin, the third Slytherin Chaser. She shouldn't have been there. _How did she get there?_ James scanned the field furiously. There was no way that Slytherin could have foreseen the move. Not unless-

There was equal parts despair and elation as Lynch was blocked handily by Collette, and Odette grabbed the Snitch in her hand, moments before Al was able to close, lifting it aloft and handing Slytherin a narrow, ten-point victory. But James didn't join in on either. He was dead silent, as he snatched his broom and leapt over the barrier in one fluid motion, not even bothering to mount until he had fallen halfway to the turf below. In his eyes was murder.

 _She_ had been watching them. It was the only explanation. She'd seen them practising the move and prepared her team for it. James was adamant. That lying, conniving, cheating little… He should have known better; the moment Odette had taken him to spy on the Ravenclaw practice. He should have _known_ she'd use it on him eventually. Typical, self-serving Slytherin.

'Oi!' James yelled as he flew in to land. His anger made the affair rough and uncoordinated. Odette herself had only just touched down. Her team was celebrating its way to the Slytherin changing rooms near the centre of the pitch.

The rain had plastered Odette's hair to her forehead and face. Long, unkempt strands of it stuck to her cheeks and lips. Dark tracks were beginning to form beneath her eyes as her ever-present makeup struggled to withstand the barrage of the weather. Her Slytherin jersey hung sodden and limp, clinging to her frame in a way that would have stolen James' attention, were his mind not already so set on its path. He noticed consternation briefly flicker across her features as he approached.

Before he could even open his mouth to berate her, Odette flung her arms wide, leaping on to James so that he was forced to catch her. He felt her hands tangle themselves in his hair and he was pulled inwards forcibly until her lips locked with his own. He struggled as she pulled their bodies together, and tried to force back her exploratory tongue, or the hand that slid itself up under his jersey and down the back of his trousers. A few onlookers gave the pair a hearty wolf whistle and hurried on from the obviously private exchange.

'What the hell-?' James started, as she finally let him come up for air.

'Zip it, Potter,' Odette growled. 'Not here.'

'Don't think you can get away with this, you-'

'I'll let you finish that sentence _inside._ Away from prying eyes.'

'I'll bloody-'

'You'll bloody make a Loyal Clavet of yourself if you carry on right here, Potter.'

That finally shut James up. He allowed himself to be pulled along by the hand as Odette made for the abandoned Ravenclaw changing rooms. Odette _hated_ embarrassment. Airing their dirty laundry in front of the school as she'd done with Loyal last year would have been the last thing she'd wanted. Not to mention James himself would have looked like a bit of a tit. He wasn't sure if she was doing it for herself or him, but he should have expected it, at least.

What he certainly _didn't_ expect was to be laid into the moment the door closed behind them.

'James Potter you're an utter pillock, and a selfish, ungrateful, idiotic _arse!'_

'Wait a minute-'

'How _dare_ you! The bloody nerve, swooping down like you own the show, as if _I'm_ the one in the wrong after everything you've done.'

' _I've_ done? You cheating little Slytherin-!'

'You self-centred, pig-headed Gryffindor-!'

'You used _our move-!'_

'Sending that jumped-up whore-!

'Cheated us out of the match-!'

'-been more places than a Niffler's nose-!'

' _I'd never have done that to you!'_ both of them chorused together, leaving them staring at one another in the abandoned room, chests heaving, water slowly dripping off of their clothes and bodies into little puddles at their feet. Somewhere in the stand high above them, loose cladding began slapping against the framework, adding an urgent tone to the steady _drip, drip_ and the rush of their laboured breathing.

James had never seen Odette truly distraught before. There was genuine hurt in her eyes. The corners of her mouth were turned down – a far cry from the sultry smile that was usually affixed. Her shoulders were slumped and, as James studied her, she crossed her arms defensively. James noted the tiny golden wings of the Snitch giving a feeble flutter between her fingers.

It was the perfect opportunity for James to stop, take a breath and realise that he was pushing Odette too far. That she had her own grievances, which he'd been remiss in addressing. That their relationship was a two-way thing, and that they might have born more chances to work through their problems if they were able to have a civil discussion about it all.

But the broiling, bubbling anger seethed over and washed away any chance of rational thought. And James scowled as he opened his mouth again – the bitter taste of their defeat outweighing all.

Again, Odette beat him to the punch.

'You've treated me like absolute _dirt_ these past few weeks, James!'

'I have _not!_ '

'Let's stop for a minute and consider this from my perspective. Something your thick skull is _clearly_ incapable of doing, so I'll walk you through it, like the baby you are. First, you get caught in the middle of the night in the Ravenclaw _girls'_ dormitory. Then, you proceed to ignore me all week, while all manner of rumours fly about just what you _might_ have been up to, leaving me to put on a brave face and try and weather the looks of scorn, ridicule, or even worse, _pity_ as everyone whispered about how you were _fucking_ Cassandra Featherstone!'

'You're stupider than you look if you think that's the truth!'

'That's not the fucking _point!_ The _school_ doesn't know that. And now they think you're messing around behind my back and I – Odette _fucking_ Mansfield – am supposed to come crawling back to you like some pathetic lapdog!'

Odette advanced on him, gesturing wildly with her right hand. It was hard to tell with all the rain coating everything, but James thought there might have been real tears in her eyes.

'That's not true- I'll tell them it's not true.'

'It's too late, James. Because you didn't do anything about it. You let it fester and grow. To them, that's as good as acceptance.'

'Hold on. None of this makes what you did any better. You did it to hurt me, but you're messing with the whole _team._ They didn't deserve-'

'Didn't _deserve?_ Don't talk to me about what's fucking _deserved!_ After you send _her_ to stand me up. Holly- fucking- whore- Brooks!'

She punctuated each of her lasts words by shoving James in the chest. On her final push, her hand pressed against one of the wounds from his run-in with the Golden-Eyed Monsters, and he flinched back.

'Don't call her that.'

 _Crack!_

Even before James' vision erupted in stars and colour, he realised he'd said the wrong thing. Odette had – without any warning – punched him with the fist still holding the Snitch. And Merlin, but it ached. He worked feeling back into his jaw, but again, it was Odette doing all the talking.

'Of _course_ you'd defend _her!'_

'She's my friend.'

'Your _friend?_ Morgana's tits, James! They're all your _friends_ , aren't they?! Rain, Cassandra, Holly. Well, here's something from the front page of the _Prophet_ for you: where I'm from, in the _real world,_ friends don't go around with their hands up other friends' skirts, and leave their girlfriends high and dry!'

'That's not true-' he started

'Oh, no. I'm not hearing it, James. I don't fucking care any more. All you wanted to do was whine about your Quidditch. You hadn't even _thought_ to apologise. I'm done. I'm so fucking done. You know what? I'm glad I spied on that move of yours. I'm glad we beat you, and your pathetic team. You can go cry about it to them, seeing as that's all you _really_ care about!'

And with that, Odette tossed the Snitch at James' chest and stormed from the room, throwing the door open as she marched out into the storm.

On instinct, James caught it, closing his fist around the tiny golden ball. He took a few slow, deep breaths, pocketing the Snitch and placing his broom up gently in the racks meant for his Ravenclaw counterparts.

Then he proceeded to hurl a bin meant for dirty robes across the room. He punched a hole in the door of a locker, and tossed a chair out into the wind and rain after Odette. So caught up in the maelstrom was he, that James never had the presence of mind to stop and think how unnatural this all was. He knew only the anger.

Back out into the storm, and James was still seething. He needed to vent. He cut through a walkway, abandoned now, as most of the school had fled back to the safety and warmth of the castle. Abandoned banners and streamers, and few paper cups were all that was left of the hordes of spectators. James' footsteps did a poor job of filling the void left behind by a thousand or so of his classmates. He ran a hand through his hair and let out a long breath that hissed between clenched teeth.

Odette had been completely unreasonable. She's succeeded in derailing his conversation entirely, instead getting herself worked up to a ridiculous degree about something as trivial as his visiting Cassie in the night. Nobody with two brain cells to rub together would think anything _like that_ was going on between them. Which showed to James just how much Odette was thinking about the whole affair.

He passed a small group of students clustered around one of the eerie, older Ministry officials whose name James still didn't know. It was the wizard. He'd been haunting James' classes all week, making James feel like someone was watching over his shoulder at every turn. James took a sharp turn back between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff stands so as to avoid him, lest he say something that would get him into even more trouble.

'Thought I might find you sulking around here, Potter.'

The voice came from the end of the tunnel James was walking down. There, leaning up against the wooden frame, a silly little Slytherin flag in one hand, was the second-last person James wanted to see at that moment.

'Piss off, Caspar. Not in the mood.'

'Saw your girlfriend stalk past earlier. Or should I say _ex-_ girlfriend. Bet you ten galleons she's off for some heavy consoling under the sheets of a sixth-years bed.'

'For once in your life, Caspar, shut up, or by the Founders I'll-'

'I mean this is _Odette Mansfield_ we're talking about. Frankly, I'd be shocked if she didn't have a hand up her skirt already-'

'I'm warning you, Caspar.'

'Oh, I'm _terrified._ Don't take it too hard, mate. I thought Gryffindor played well today. Might have won it, if they'd pulled you out right at the start of the match. Must be disappointed you couldn't play longer though, right? If only there was some sort of bracer, or _glove_ one could wear that would prevent such serious wrist injuries.'

That was it. James had heard enough. It was, after all, Caspar's fault he was in this state in the first place. Caspar had stolen the glove. He'd been the one who had allowed James to get injured, and Gryffindor to lose the match, and James to lose Odette. His hand went straight for his wand-

' _Expelliarmus!'_

But Caspar had been hiding his behind his back all along, evidently waiting for this very moment. The blow was like a punch in the stomach to James, who watched his wand fly end over end, well out of reach out on the pitch behind where Caspar stood.

James didn't let the paltry fact of his being unarmed stop him, barrelling down the tunnel towards where Caspar stood. It was clearly an unprecedented move, and the look of shock on Caspar's face was a beautiful sight as James wound up and punched him square in the jaw before he had time to form a second spell.

Using the moment of disorientation, James disarmed Caspar the old-fashioned way, by slapping the wand clean out of his hand. He managed to land another punch before Caspar gathered his wits and grabbed hold of James' shirt by the collar, swinging wildly back in retaliation.

But James didn't let it faze him, as he landed punch after punch. Head, body, arms, anything he could reach. Caspar landed a few retaliatory blows, but they were poorly-aimed and James shrugged them off, letting the anger he'd built up over the past day – no, _week_ – release.

Eventually, Caspar's grip on James' shirt came free, and he collapsed to the ground. James' fist was coated with a thin spattering of blood, and bruising was already evident on his knuckles. His own lip was split, and he could feel a black eye forming. But Caspar was collapsed in a heap on the ground.

James stood over him. Somewhere, deep down, an animal part of him urged him onwards. _Kick him_. It said. James was shocked to feel his body tensing up to obey-

' _Reducto!'_

James flew through the air, crashing into the wooden beams that supported the wall of the tunnel. He felt his neck jar, and fire flare all through his shoulder and arm. Hastily pushing himself to his feet, he looked around for the source of the attack, and the red mist of his rage shattered. Calantha Merriweather was marching his way, wand drawn and fury writ all across her face. The strange old wizard was a half-step behind her, looking incredibly pleased with himself.

'What have you- Oh Caspar my dear, sweet boy- _Impedimenta!'_

Another spell caught James off guard, and he was barely able to throw himself out of the way as a jet of orange light whizzed over his shoulder. Calantha Merriweather was torn between stooping over her son to stroke his rain-soaked hair, and rounding on James to take out her wrath.

'He fired first-'

'I'll not hear of it! You're done boy! Finished, you hear! I'll have you expelled quicker than you can say "My father's a wastrel", you mark my words!'

Calantha's eyes were wild. Her long, golden hair – magically kept dry despite the deluge – seemed to crackle and rile with electric anger. Her lilting, drawling speech was gone, now, all clipped tones and vengeful fury. Stood a little ways behind her, with his hands folded at his waist, the old wizard shot a smug smile in James' direction. With a pang of shock, James recognised his own wand in the old wizard's hands.

For the first time that day, worry outweighed the anger. Like the sun cresting a hilltop, it burned away the fog that had been clouding James' thoughts, and left him filled with a shaking, nervous energy, instead.

'I'll see your wand shattered, boy. You'll be banished from these grounds. Your days are over, you hear me? Over! _Incarcerous!'_

' _Relashio!'_

James wasn't able to dodge the ropes that leapt from Calantha's wand to ensnare him, but a new voice arriving on the scene cut the cords before they made contact. The thick, heavy rope collapsed at James' feet, twitching feebly like a thing half-dead.

'You dare use such a spell on one of my students again, Calantha, and it'll be you that never sees the inside of Hogwarts again.'

Professor Longbottom marched up the tunnel from behind James, his strides purposeful, and his gaze ice cold. His wand was out, and though it wasn't actually lowered at either of them, he kept it trained in the general direction of the Ministry duo. Caspar had made his way to his feet, and his mother flocked to croon over him, shooting hateful glares at James every other second.

'An unprovoked attack on another student-!' she spluttered. 'Brawling like a damned Muggle! _Look at my poor boy!'_

The evidence was damning. Caspar's face was a bruised, bloodied mess. A cut on his eyebrow leaked blood down his cheek. One eye was sealed shut, and his lips were a swollen mess.

'Yet nowhere in the Hogwarts code does it say this ought to call for snapping a student's wand on the spot and dragging him up to the castle like a criminal. This isn't Azkaban, Calantha. That's not how we handle discipline around here.'

'And that's why _we're_ here,' she hissed back.

Professor Longbottom gestured curtly for James to fall in behind him. 'Any discussions on the requisite punishment will go through me, as his head of house. Come, then. Let us discuss the discipline.'

' _Yyy_ es…' Calantha purred. 'Retribution _nnn_.'

As James was marched up out of the tunnel and back towards the castle, he passed the spot where Caspar was being tended to by the elderly wizard. James shot him a dirty look as they crossed paths, but Caspar returned it with a smile.

His teeth were bloodstained, and his face a ruined mess, but James could just make out the words he hissed, sounding almost gleeful, and certainly taunting. ' _Glorious Sacrifice…'_

It haunted James all the way back up to the castle.

His forced march continued through the Entrance Hall and up the sweeping Grand Staircase. The few students that were milling around shot the trio an array of odd glances. James could sense the whispered conversations behind hands and out of earshot as they speculated. But all were left in Professor Longbottom's wake, and soon they had only the muddy trail of water and a few flecks of blood over which to formulate their fanciful tales of just what the enigmatic James Potter had gotten up to now.

Up they continued, past two, three floors. Towards the large group of offices that the ministry officials had requisitioned upon arriving. It had been a solitary, small victory that the offices of the Headmistress had refused to open to each and every one of them, no matter how they had cursed, pleaded and reasoned with the stubborn statues guarding the door.

He was bundled into a sort of waiting room off the main corridor. A row of stark, uncomfortable chairs lined one wall, made to keep the students who waited squirm. Opposite, four identical wood-panelled doors oversaw the waiting area with solemn regard. Professor Longbottom and Calantha Merriweather had a hushed, heated conversation to which James was not privy – only a soft buzzing filled his ears despite standing no more than a few feet away from either of them. Eventually, it seemed the professor won out, as Calantha scowled, and gestured pointedly with her wand. A flowing, silver ermine burst forth and scampered off through the wall over James' head. Professor Longbottom followed suit; the sheer bulk of his great lion Patronus making Calantha take a step back in shock. Small satisfaction for James, as he had the feeling his fate was about to be sealed.

'Sit,' the professor barked, gesturing at a seat behind James. He and Calantha turned on their heels and strode through the centre-right of the four doors. The moment it swung shut, an absolute and eerie silence filled the narrow room James occupied.

He shifted in the chair, finding the hard wood unforgiving, the sitting position too rigid and upright. It made his shoulder ache, his muscles clenching in protest. He stood up and began to pace back and forth along the narrow room, adding his footsteps to the dozens of students who had already began to wear down the carpet over the past few weeks as the sweeping Ministry disciplinary reform slowly took hold.

Movement behind him, and he saw Professor Ellfrick appear from the corridor without. She favoured him with little more than a stern glare before sweeping into the same room as Professor Longbottom and Calantha Merriweather, trailing her long, dark cloak behind her.

Outside, the rain continued to hammer against the walls of the castle. The single, large window that overlooked the lake was awash, distorting the view into a weeping melange of greys, greens and blues. Far off, thunder rumbled, promising that the worst was yet to come.

Alabaster Shelby was the next to arrive. His stern face regarded James without he barest hint of emotion. His polished boots clicked menacingly as he marched across the floor. But the moment the long, sweeping tails of his jacket disappeared behind the polished oak, silence smothered James again like a blanket.

By now, James had a fair idea of what was happening. As professor after professor piled in to the tiny room, his heart began to sink. His suspicious were all but confirmed when Zoe Meadows – by James' count, the last to arrive – dashed over to him and wrapped him up in a full-body hug.

Any last vestiges of James' stern resolve melted away beneath her touch, and he allowed himself to feel afraid for the first time. His breaths shortened, his heart quickened, and a sickly sort of energy coursed through all of his limbs.

'Don't let them-' he stammered into the Professor's neck.

'Shh,' she whispered, giving James one last squeeze. 'We won't- they can't…'

And then she was gone. Once more, James was alone in the corridor.

They couldn't _really_ expel him, could they? The question rattled around in James' head as he paced back and forth along the corridor. He'd fought at school before. What Caspar had done to Fred and Clip was no worse, surely. And yet he had suffered no retribution. If Fred was to believed, the attack was even endorsed by a member of staff.

A fact which demonstrated just what sort of odds James was up against.

This _couldn't_ be his last day at school. The very thought of having his wand snapped terrified him to the core. Living without a wand would be like living without a head, or a heart, or lungs. They were all critical pieces that made him alive, that defined who he was. He couldn't be James the not-wizard. Little more than a Squib. The shame of it caused his cheeks to flush and his ears to burn, though nobody was around to see it.

How would he get Rain back without his friends by his side to help him? And what about Renshaw? Was it even safe to venture back into the forest? How much did Caspar and his _Glorious Sacrifice_ know? Would he ever hear from Odette again? So many unanswered questions, things he hadn't done, spells he hadn't learned, experiences he hadn't had within these walls that piled up before him, like a giant, looming monolith that shattered as he squeezed his eyes shut – taken from him forever in a moment of uncontrollable anger.

The wait nearly drove him mad. Thrice, he marched up to the door with the intent of throwing it open and ending the suffering. Eventually, it was only Professor Longbottom and Calantha Merriweather that exited. Both faced him down across the narrow corridor. James tried to read the Professor's expression, but it was too guarded.

With shock, James realised the wand held in Calantha's hand was not hers, but his own. Instinctively, he reached out towards it, but she didn't so much as move.

'James, the professors and… hangers-on-' here Professor Longbottom shot a sidelong glance at Calantha with no small amount of distaste. '-have met, and the majority decision has been _not_ to see you expelled.'

James' body sagged in relief. A tentative smile crept onto his features and he reached out again to reclaim his wand. This time, Calantha actively pulled it away, and addressed him coldly.

'However, due to the severity of your actions, your case is being forwarded to the Ministry for a full Departmental review, and in the meantime, you shall find yourself suspended from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry indefinitely.'

James almost let out a whimper.

'Your wand will be detained for the duration of your suspension, Mister Potter, according to the Hogwarts code. The Hogwarts Express shall take students home for the Christmas holidays tomorrow. When it returns, you shall _not_ be welcome aboard.'


	22. Festive

Christmas dinner in the Potter-Weasley household was always a slightly crazed affair. When it was held at the Burrow, however, it bordered on utter bedlam.

'James, pass me the Firewhiskey!'

'Move over, _move over!_ Pudding's here.

'Rose why have you got schoolbooks at the table?'

'Just- just throw it James.'

'Who put a Caressing Cushion on my chair!?'

'No, _over_ James. I don't want it covered in gravy.'

'Victoire, be a dear and help your uncle, he's managed to get the custard everywhere.'

'Dominique, for the love of Merlin, _stop undressing at the dinner table!'_

Food and voices and bodies flew about left and right. Cutlery was levitated and dished out from a wobbly, clattering blob that floated around the table dangerously close to eye level. Towers of plates teetered and quivered precariously, making a young Fred Weasley twitch with the overwhelming desire to just give one a nudge. Arms, legs, and faces forced themselves into James' view as they reached or passed or spilled. Bodies fled from the chair that George had subtly transfigured into a frightening rendition of a Blast-Ended Skrewt.

James leaned back on his seat, more trying to stay out of the way than actually involve himself in the chaos. He was making a full-time job of avoiding the disappointed stares his mother would give him every minute or so, and was having to pointedly ignore the way Aunt Hermione's lips pursed when she studied him, or Uncle Ron rubbed his chin and suddenly looked thoughtful. Thank the Founders that Uncle Percy wasn't there, or James might have had to actually lock himself up in the attic with the ghoul for the entire day and leave it at that.

'I'm not _undressing_ , Dad. I'm just changing into a warmer jumper. It's bloody _freezing_ in here.'

At least, for the moment, Dominique Weasley was doing him the favour of drawing away all the attention.

'It is most uncouth to be displaying your undergarments, _pétale,_ ' Fleur chided. There was a tightness to the corners of her eyes that, for her, was as good as pulling out fistfuls of hair.

'You've all seen 'em before,' Dom waved her mother off. 'Aaand presto!'

She produced from somewhere the largest, bulkiest fur coat that James had ever seen, wrapping herself up in it so that she was little more than a pair of blue eyes and a mop of blonde hair at the top.

'Now James, be a sport and toss me that beer, would you? Or did you forget how to throw a Quaffle when they bloody kicked you out of Hogwarts?'

Dominique had spent the past two years in Australia. She'd come back for the first time this Christmas, complete with a golden tan, a distaste for cold weather, a fascination with drinking beer, and a frankly abhorrent vocabulary.

Any other time, it would have had James bent over laughing to watch her mother practically in tears as Dominique cursed her way through a retelling of how she'd had to chase down a kangaroo which had run off with her wand in its pouch. Instead, James just ground his teeth as he listlessly tossed the can in the direction of his cousin.

'Chin up, mate,' Fred nudged him from under the table, sensing James' dour mood. 'Think of it this way, she's about three cans away from passing clean out. Here, let me help.'

With a wink, Fred popped the top off a bottle of Butterbeer and tilted it towards Dom.

'Oi, Dom! Bet you I can finish this Butterbeer before you can finish that swill!'

'Fred, no-!'

'You're _on!'_

' _Pétale,_ stop zis, please!'

A sort of awestruck stupor fell over those gathered as they watched Dom finish the can before Fred had even got through the neck of his bottle, crush it against her forehead, and topple over backwards off of her chair, legs up in the air. She didn't move again. Judging by the gasps and averted gazes of those seated next to her, Dominique's incapacitation was providing them with rather a confronting view.

Uncle Bill had Fleur wrapped in a one-armed hug and was shaking his head despondently, a lost look plastered across his face.

'Mama, I will take her upstairs,' Victoire sniffed haughtily, pushing her chair back and hastening to cover her unruly sister's modesty.

Fleur, despondent eyes downcast, just waved her daughter to _go_ without saying a word.

'Teddy, you will accompany me?' Suddenly all smiles, Victoire flashed her brilliant white teeth in his direction, even going so far as to flick her hair over her shoulder with the hand that wasn't busy holding her wand to levitate Dominique's unconscious form.

James made sure to look away, as it had become apparent at an early age that Veela charm – even so diluted – didn't make the important discrimination for family members.

'Actually, Vee, I was going to stay back and go for a walk with James. Catch up on the year and… things.'

James perked up at that. He didn't miss the disapproving look Victoire speared his way before she spun on her heel and marched off up the stairs, making sure to bang Dominique's head on every other step as they ascended.

It was with something akin to relief that James pushed himself up from the table and followed Teddy out through the kitchen. He could practically feel the disappointment radiating off the older family members while he'd been in the room. A dose of fresh air was just what he needed, even if it _was_ freezing outdoors.

James weaved his way between a melange of dated, fading furniture, piles of shoes, and stacks of clean laundry waiting to be levitated up to the bedroom of whomever owned it. With so many people crammed under one roof for a few nights, it was a wonder James was even wearing his own clothes. He was reasonably certain it was Fred that kept slipping somebodies lacy thongs into his own laundry pile.

''Scuse us, coming through!' called Grandma Weasley, as she bustled past with a behemoth of a Christmas pudding in her arms. Several lesser cakes, trifles and condiments hovered along obediently behind her. She spared a smile for James, who waited as her grey hair and attendant dessert-trail were completely lost from view before slipping through into the kitchen where Teddy was waiting.

'Bit mental in there, right?' Teddy smiled, leaning up against the kitchen sink, a large glass of aromatic mulled wine in one hand.

The years since James started Hogwarts hadn't been easy on Teddy. He'd been Imperiused – presumably by the Desecrator – in James' first year, and set to stealing the Heart of Hogwarts, using Rain as a vessel for its powerful magic. The Ministry of Magic, unwilling to accept Teddy's innocence entirely, or perhaps doubting his competence as an Auror, had relieved him of duty and launched an exhaustive and aggressive investigation into every facet of his life. And when he'd finally been up to turning things around and working with Harry and Ron on some of their new secretive business, he'd become afflicted with the Infection that had very nearly taken magical Britain to her knees less than a year past.

The result was a shadow of the man he had once been. Gaunt cheeks, bruised eyes and a hooded, haunted gaze had replaced the bright smiles and infectious laughter. James hadn't seen him change his appearance in months – an act that used to be his favourite party trick. He was jumpy, quieter than he had ever been, and prone to long, introspective silences that made sustaining a conversation difficult. A far cry from the days when Harry used to complain he could never shut the boy up.

But if there was anyone in the family that knew about failure, it would have been Teddy.

'Hardly hear myself think,' James agreed, accepting a proffered bottle of Butterbeer, and letting Teddy warm it for him.

'C'mon, let's take a walk. Add some of this. It'll help keep the cold at bay.'

From a concealed pocket in the seat of his trousers, Teddy produced a stainless steel hip flask, and dropped a dash of the dark, thick liquid within into James' bottle. James sniffed his drink and came away with eyes watering.

'What _is_ that?'

Teddy smiled. A pale, feeble thing that looked as if it could be scared away at a moment's notice. 'Don't tell your mother.'

James led the way through the front door. Outside, a fresh dusting of snow blanketed the ground, just enough to settle. Here and there, patches of grass muddied the ghostly vista, fighting their way through with help from the sun that now hung low and distant, hugging the horizon. The air was sharp and cold, stinging James' nose as he breathed in, and playing with both of their breath in lazy, wispy clouds that preceded them as they walked.

James took a sip of his drink, trying his best not to visibly wince as the heat flowed down his throat and throughout his whole body, eventually settling deep in his stomach where it warded off the chill in a way James' coats and scarves could not.

They walked in silence for a long time. Teddy looked like he was chewing on a thought or statement. James was content to wait, sipping occasionally on his drink as they wended their way through overgrown hedgerows and unruly bushes. Once, a flurry of movement in his periphery turned out to be a small gnome, diving for cover underneath a particularly thorny snaggle of roses.

The further from the house they got, the more that nature took over, until they were walking along little more than a muddy track amidst untamed bush. A small wood topped a low rise, overlooking the house and gardens. The setting sun framed the dilapidated, drunken building, setting the windows aflame and giving it a light to match the riot of life within.

Teddy cleared them a spot on a rickety bench seat with his wand. James tried not to look on with jealousy at the casual, thoughtless act. He felt almost naked without his own wand. He still hadn't gotten over its absence; constantly checking his pockets and reliving a moment of sheer panic over and over when he realised it wasn't there. Like losing his own hand, it would take a long time to accustom himself to the loss.

Even thinking about it once more brought up that hollow, echoing feeling within him. That nauseating, free-falling sensation that left him feeling sick to the core.

He took a long sip of his drink this time. The burning was getting better with every mouthful.

'It just gets a bit much sometimes, doesn't it?'

Teddy finally spoke into the silence, casting off the first tentative attempt at conversation into the still waters between them.

James nodded, thinking about the stares he couldn't help but see as accusatory. The frowns that he could swear were judging. 'How did you manage, after, you know…'

James trailed off, for fear of scaring Teddy back into himself by broaching the subject too directly.

'They're not judging you, you know. They're a lot of things, this family; crazy, loud, pushy, argumentative. But one thing they are for sure, is good people.'

'I guess… it's just the way they look at me. Rose, like I've just betrayed them all to the Death Eaters. Al isn't sure whether to be impressed or mortified. I can tell Uncle Ron wants to make a joke, but Aunt Hermione keeps kicking him under the table. It's just… I wish they'd just say it, and get it out of the way. It's a giant Erumpent in the room that everyone seems to be avoiding.'

'We're a family of Gryffindors mate, almost exclusively. You throw a dark lord into that room, and they'll be all over it in a heartbeat. A delicate situation like this? They're like a bunch of first-years trying to levitate. Something is _bound_ to catch fire.'

James smiled, thinking back to his own disastrous first lesson attempting the spell. He'd give anything for the opportunity to be able to cast it again.

'Hopefully, it's that awful jumper of Fred's.'

It was Teddy's turn to grin this time, as he brought his own bottle up to his lips. James followed suit, realising that he was most of the way through his own. He could already feel the knots loosening in his stomach, and the tense build-up in his shoulders dissipating. Whether it was talking to Teddy, the drink, or some combination of the two, he wasn't quite certain.

'One thing I know for sure, though, after spending most of the last three years locked away, isolated, or quarantined, is that your head can be a dark and lonely place. Don't keep it all trapped up there. Talk to someone, every now and then. It helps more than you could imagine.'

James nodded. 'Thanks, Teddy.'

'No worries. Just a little Hufflepuff advice to counter-balance all the Gryffindors telling you to punch something.'

'That's how I landed in this mess in the first place.'

They both had a quiet chuckle and lapsed back into silence. A feeble breeze stirred a few strands of James' hair, and half-heartedly brushed loose snow across their feet.

 _Odette._ It was the first name that came to his mind, almost unbidden. But why would he talk to her? Their relationship was hardly one of heartfelt conversations and comforting solace over fragile emotions.

It seemed their relationship was hardly one of _anything,_ anymore.

For that was all he could assume now, that _they_ were a thing of the past. Ginny had grounded him the moment she discovered his suspension, and so he had been allowed no contact with the outside world whatsoever. No mail in or out. He had no idea if Odette had written him. He'd half-written a dozen letters addressed to her before burning each one and coming to the conclusion that anything he had to say was better done face to face.

Though, he bitterly mused, he might not get that opportunity ever again.

'How's things with Victoire?' James asked, in an attempt to distract himself.

Teddy's subtle wince told James that he might not have chosen the best topic of conversation.

'Things are… a little confusing, at the moment, James.'

'I'm with you, there.'

'She's spent so much time away lately, traveling through France, staying with family over there… She didn't come back all last year, when I was… you know…'

 _Sick._ When Teddy had been so sick he'd almost died from the Infected curse.

'Not that I blame her, or anything. I was so busy working with your dad, and no-one in their right mind would have wanted to come to the country then, anyway. But now she's back every few months and so much has changed. _Everything_ has changed, for me. Everything except her.'

James wasn't sure if this was a good or a bad thing. But he sensed that Teddy was beginning to open up, and so he only nodded and made a noise of agreement in his throat. He took another sip of his drink. It was almost empty, now.

'She just doesn't quite understand it, James. I've been put through the wringer. I- I almost gave up, at some points last year. And all she keeps asking is when everything will be back to normal. When will I be _better._ She says she still love me, but to be honest, James, I think she is more in love with the _idea_ of me, than the real thing. Young childhood sweethearts, hand-in-hand through everything Hogwarts threw at us, even though we were in different houses. The family had been planning the wedding already. I think _that_ is what Victoire loves, James. That story, that romance. But I just- I just don't think I can live up to that anymore. I don't think I'm enough.'

'Damn,' James breathed. It put his struggles with Odette over spying on a Quidditch match into perspective. 'You weren't joking about that Hufflepuff talking thing, were you?'

Teddy laughed. For the first time in what seemed like forever. It was loud and strong and almost, _almost_ just like it used to be. He startled a handful of birds from the wood behind them, and James watched them wheel away, angrily tittering at the interruption.

'Look at me,' Teddy smiled, emptying the contents of his bottle and pushing himself up to stand. 'Spilling my guts to you. Lumping you with all my problems when I came up here to try and be the one helping you.'

James followed suit, wavering on the spot only slightly as the effects of Teddy's mysterious drink washed over him. 'I'm pretty rubbish at this relationships thing, but I reckon I know someone who might be able to help. And she'd be damn keen to hear from you too, I'd wager.'

'Oh yea?' Teddy asked, throwing an arm around James' shoulder.

James squatted down to Professor Meadows' meagre height and faked a limp. He cleared his throat to make his voice shrill and piercing and waved his fist menacingly. 'Potter! If you put one more toad in my drawer I'll jam my wand so far up your arse, you'll be spitting sparks for a week!'

Teddy laughed again, and it made James smile to hear the sound. 'So, she's still using that one?'

'Every other lesson.'

'Well, perhaps if you stopped hiding toads around her classroom…'

'I've never seen anyone so afraid of anything in my life.'

Teddy gave James a friendly shove, causing him to stagger and almost tangle himself up in an overgrown grape vine. They were back at the door to the Burrow, now. He could hear the sounds of conversations and laughter coming from within. He hesitated a moment, but Teddy held open the door.

'C'mon James, how bad can they be?'

James nodded, steeling himself as he strode in and let the warm air, and chaotic noise within the house wash over him.

'James!' called Uncle George from a spot upon the kitchen bench. He was surrounded by Al, Fred and Lily. 'Young Al was just telling us _all_ about this new lady-love of yours. Eyes like a cloudless summer's day, he says! Hair spun of the purest gold, he says! Hips you can-'

Mercifully, Al slapped George with an oven glove before he could finish that sentence.

This, evidently, was just how bad they could be.

James, desperate to distract from _that_ topic of conversation, took the opportunity to throw a few non-lethal kitchen utensils in Al's direction, until the ache in his shoulder pulled him up short and he settled for hurling abuse instead.

'Did Al tell you three girls asked him to Hogsmeade and he blew them all off-'

'Are we _sure_ they were girls?'

'-to go study with Rose.'

'Oh, well I thought that story was going in an entirely different direction for a moment there.' Uncle George placed his hands on hips and shook his head sadly towards Al.

'Your father would be so proud that you're continuing on his long and storied tradition of being utterly clueless when it comes to women.'

'Well, not _entirely_ clueless,' Lily smirked, piping up for the first time. 'He _did_ get his first kiss behind Greenhouse Three last week.'

' _What?'_ chorused James, Fred and George.

'You weren't supposed to know!' Al cried, aghast.

'Well what do you expect to happen when you sneak around snogging Slytherin girls? We're going to find out.'

'A _Slytherin?!'_

James, in a fit of poor judgement, had chosen this moment to take a sip from his Butterbeer. He was forced into a hacking fit, eyes watering, Fred pounding him on the back quite unhelpfully.

'We do talk to one another, you know,' Lily added. 'It's not just one big pit of brooding and malice down there.'

James wasn't sure what he found more strange; Slytherins gossiping like… like _normal_ people, Al kissing someone, or Al kissing a _Slytherin._ And a _gossiping_ one, at that!'

'Was it good?'

'Was there tongue?'

'What's her name!?'

'Is she your _girlfriend?'_

'Did she cry?'

Harry Potter, stood leaning in the doorway and surveying the madness with a calm smile asked the last question. The group all turned to him in confusion.

'Why would she _cry?'_

'Erm, no reason… Sounds like it went better than mine, then.'

'I'm not telling any of you anything.'

But Lily smiled, drumming her silver-painted nails on the bench top and exuding a wave of smugness. 'Oh but Al, I know _everything.'_

'E-everything?'

'Every sordid detail.'

'You wouldn't dare.'

By this stage, the pair had the rapt attention of the entire room. A few stragglers had drifted in from the lounge to watch the spectacle unfold. The eyes of the onlookers darted back and forth as Al and Lily squared off across the kitchen counter.

'If you tell them I- I'll tell everyone who you visited in Hogsmeade!'

There was a gasp from the entire room at this latest revelation.

'Lily Potter, you're far too young-' started James and Harry in unison.

'Fine, _fine._ You win.'

Lily folded her arms and glowered across at Al, tossing her long, red hair indignantly.

'Quick!' George yelled. 'Someone get them both drunk so they'll spill _all_ the secrets!'

'George Weasley!' cried a voice from the lounge room. 'They are _children._ If I hear you even _think_ about suggesting such an idea again, I'll have you strung up by your toes in the garden and feed you to the gnomes!' Grandma Weasley bustled into the room, showing surprising agility in running down George and repeatedly beating him over the head with an unused napkin.

Amidst the laugher, Harry Potter caught his son's eye and gestured out towards the back door.

Together, they passed through the lounge, where still more family members lazed on couches in a catatonic state after eating far too much of Grandma Weasley's delicious food. They sipped drinks and groaned conversation lazily back and forth between one another without actually managing to say anything of significance.

The one exception was cousin Victoire, who was sitting on the lowermost step, tapping her foot impatiently against the floor. The moment she saw Teddy appear behind James, she leapt forward and took hold of his arm, dragging him off to the nearby sitting room, where she had prepared a small table complete with candles and glasses of wine for the two of them. James flashed him a wobbly thumbs up as Teddy shot a concerned look back over his shoulder.

Harry led James through the house and out the back door to the garden, where a large stack of wood leaned up against one wall of the house, covered by a rickety lean-to that was more holes than actual roof. James watched as Harry waved his wand and several logs marched out from the pile and aligned themselves obediently at his feet, ready to be taken in to stoke the fire.

There had been a time – for all of James' life, really – where he'd look at such a casual display of magic and become filled with excitement and anticipation. One day _he'd_ be able to do that, himself. Now, it only made the empty feeling within him echo louder. That budding joy replaced by uncertainty and anxiety in equal measure.

'Look, I know we haven't really talked about what happened at school,' Harry began awkwardly.

'Do we have to, Dad? Now?'

'I heard you knocked that smarmy Ravenclaw back into the Founders' days,' Uncle Ron grinned, poking his head around the door – not quite willing to venture out onto the snow-covered grass in his thick, woollen socks.

'Ronald Weasley! Leave James alone. The last thing he needs is _more_ harassment from the likes of you!'

'Hermione!' Ron laughed, as she joined the conversation with her head out the bathroom window. 'Glad you could join us. Care to share any boxing tips for young James? Should you punch from the hip, or is swinging the arm enough?'

' _Ronald!'_

Harry suddenly decided he needed to tie the non-existent shoelace on the pair of wellington boots he was wearing, but James saw his smile.

Aunt Hermione slammed the window closed, and James could hear her purposeful footsteps marching through the house. Ron suddenly looked a little concerned.

'How's your shoulder?' Harry asked, changing the subject altogether.

'Much better,' James replied, sliding the neck of his jumped down to reveal the all-but-healed scars. He made sure to position the Locket such that it covered the sunburst weal in the centre of his chest.

Things had taken an upwards turn once he'd returned home, in terms of healing. Without the desperate need for secrecy, they had been able to procure almost all of what James had needed to assist in his recovery without raising any eyebrows from Diagon Alley. And just one or two ingredients from Knockturn.

'I spoke with Hermione about the epazote herb that you were eating to help with the poison.'

'That you _made_ me eat.'

'It was all we had. She says that if taken on an empty stomach, it has a known side effect of fits of uncontrollable anger.'

'Ah.'

'You _were_ eating full meals, like we told you to, weren't you?'

'Erm…' James thought back to the days and weeks following the injury. He'd hardly touched his food. The epazote herb made everything taste bitter and acid in his mouth, and made his stomach clench unsettlingly with every mouthful. 'Not _exactly.'_

'We don't tell you these things just because we like to hear our own voices, James,' Harry chided. 'Hagrid knows more about bush-remedies than anyone I know.'

'Sorry. But it wasn't my fault I got mad, at least.'

'I like your line of thinking,' Ron smiled knowingly from the doorway.

'No, James. You need to take responsibility for this. You let yourself get goaded into making stupid decisions. You need to own this, or you'll never learn from it. You-'

'Okay, Dad. I get it. Spare me the lecture.'

James bent down to grab a handful of wood and made to head back inside. His cheeks burned with the shame of having to carry it like a Muggle, and the fear that he might be stuck like this forever.

'Not so fast,' Ron grinned, barring the doorway.

Aunt Hermione had appeared behind him. She held a finger to her lips as she lined up and gave Ron a solid shove out the door. He stumbled down the steps, placing first one, and then a second socked foot into the ankle-deep snow outside.

'Aii! Blimey that's cold. _Hermione!_ 'He made to dash after her through the house.

'Ronald Weasley! If you set one wet, muddy foot in my household you'll spend the rest of this holiday cleaning the entire place with a toothbrush!'

It was, James mused, almost magic in itself, Grandma Weasley's ability to sense every peril the cleanliness of her house faced.

Hermione skipped off with a look of childish glee, shooting James a wink over her shoulder as she disappeared into the lounge.

' _Women,'_ Ron breathed, shaking his head.

James was the first to start nodding his head in agreement.

'Now that we've got you, James, we wanted to ask if you'd be up for something.'

Ron closed the door softly behind himself, perching on the very edge of the step so as to avoid another run-in with the snow. He'd left his wand inside, and his wandless attempts to dry his socks had resulted in little more than a pungent smoke wafting up from his toes.

Hushed tones, closed doors and furtive looks. James was instantly intrigued. He felt his surly reticence evaporating away as he huddled in closer beneath the outdoor light.

'We're planning a bit of an excursion,' Harry began. 'Word from our employer has dried up, recently.'

'And I'm not going to be stuck at home for another week babysitting children for this damned day-care the girls are running,' Uncle Ron chipped in.

'We've decided to take matters into our own hands, somewhat. Neville – Professor Longbottom – had a rather frank conversation with me not so long ago about the benefit of including others in our plans. So, we think we have a lead on your friend that has gone missing, and we're going to go and follow it up. On the way, we'll tell you what we know – and what we _think_ we know – about her.'

James gawped at his father. He felt the smile burgeoning on his face. His eyes were wide. He couldn't quite work out anything intelligent to say, so instead he just nodded. Vigorously.

'Keep your head on, sport,' Ron smiled. 'Chances are it'll be dull, cold, wet and miserable. But might be it's something to keep you off the street while the Ministry work out just what they want to do with you.'

'I'm in!' James finally managed to say.

'Right. Good. Now wipe that silly smile off your face, grab an armload of wood and trudge inside like you've just had a good telling-off. I don't think you need to be told not to mention any of this to your siblings, or especially your mother.'

James bit his tongue for a second, but decided to chance it. 'What was this you were saying about including others in your plans?'

Harry gave him a gentle cuff around the ear as Ron laughed loudly from his perch. 'Baby steps, James. Baby steps.'

The rest of the holidays were slightly more manageable, with the prospect the secret excursion on the cards. It made it a touch more bearable as James stared at the ceiling above his bed, still grounded, cut off from his friends, his mail and especially his wand. It made it easier to deal with that empty, lost feeling within him. That yearning that built with each day separate from his magic. Though he'd never have been allowed to cast a spell on his break anyway, the act of having that choice taken away from him – potentially forever – was what hurt the most.

Ginny offered to allow James out of the house to see Al and Lily off at the station, but he refused. He couldn't face the crowds. The excitement and anticipation. The return to the magical world for so many others – a thing taken for granted, surely. He didn't think he'd be strong enough to weather the smiles on their faces.

Besides, he _really_ didn't want to run in to Odette, either.

And so, he said his farewells at the entrance to the Potter household. He hugged Lily tightly. She looked so _grown up_ now, with her pristine robes, and neatly braided hair.

'Stay out of trouble, Lils,' he said with a half-hearted smile.

'Bit rich coming from you, big brother.'

'What's the world come to, when the Potters need to rely on their very own baby Slytherin to keep up our good name?'

She buried her head into his chest one more time. 'I'll miss you,' she whispered. Soft enough so that only he would hear. And James knew for certain that she'd deny ever having said such blasphemy.

He clasped forearms with Al, and they shared a solemn nod.

'Keep the team in shape,' James told him sternly.

'It won't be for long,' Al said. It sounded more a plea than a statement of fact.

James felt his resolve wavering, and he bit down on his tongue and turned away from them both. He screwed his eyes tight shut and took in a long, steadying breath. When he turned back around once more, they were all gone, and he was alone in the house while the rest of his family returned to Hogwarts without him.


	23. Absent

Midday sun streamed through the stained-glass windows that lined one side of the corridor in which Fred Weasley worked. A riot of colours splashed across bland, beige pavers, looking so out of place. Like something bright and joyous had been spilled throughout the cold, reserved hallway. With a little luck, Fred Weasley thought, he'd shortly be able to add to the scene.

Although the sun shone brightly, it brought forth little heat. It was a pale, wavering disc, far off over the distant mountains, barely scudding over the tips of the highest peaks. It wrapped itself in snowy blankets so that it offered them little more than the false hope of a warm, clear day. Instead, the icy, crisp morning air stung the nose and set eyes to watering.

This high up in the castle, few folk were around to interrupt Fred's work – most were down in the Great Hall, huddling about their stews and soups, and letting the warmth of the roaring fires ease the chill that settled into their bones.

Fred blew upon his hands – damned gloves weren't thick enough. But anything warmer would impede his dexterity – and cause potential disaster for what was to come. He cursed as a thin wire slipped through his numb fingers, and a small glass sphere shattered upon the ground, bleeding its brightly-coloured contents into a puddle of pale, sapphire sunlight, refracted through an artistic image of the Black Lake below.

Fred angrily checked his watch. _Where was he?_ Late, again.

He'd felt lost, these past few weeks, without James by his side. The pair of them were two halves of a whole. Their thought processes complimented one another – particularly when it came to an operation such as this. Fred had the grand plans and the devious ideas, while James brought the pragmatism and finer detail that would make it actually work. _He_ would have had these orbs hung in about fives seconds flat. Fred couldn't cast a knotting charm worth a damn.

And James would never have been _late._

'There you are,' Fred snapped – part relief, part irritation. Tempers had been running a little hot, lately. 'You took your time.'

'Sorry,' mumbled Clip Wallace, stashing his backpack in a concealed nook and stepping over to help Fred tie knots. 'I was getting extra Charms help with Professor Budd.'

'Right. He hasn't tried to Charm his desk to sing you the lessons again, has he?'

'He tried that _once_. He's just as sane as anyone else in the castle.'

'Merlin, well that's not saying much.'

'I needed the help because every time I cast the Skin-tingling charm we're supposed to be learning, I get this horrible rash on my-'

'That is _quite_ enough.'

'-even if I'm not casting it on myself.'

'That is _definitely_ not normal, Clip.'

'That is _definitely_ not helpful, Fred.'

'D'you know what would be? Getting over here and holding this wire while I string up a few more of these bulbs.'

Clip shuffled over and climbed atop the chair that Fred proffered, teetering only slightly as he held up the fine string of wire in one hand, and levitated up a series of delicate glass spheres filled with softly pulsating pinkish glows with his wand.

Both boys stood upon chairs, balancing precariously as they leaned back and forth, affixing the devices to wires running criss-cross along the entire ceiling. In their position around a blind corner, in a relatively narrow corridor, some unsuspecting student – Ravenclaw, probably, as they'd purposely chosen a spot in their tower for the prank – would turn the corner, trip the triggering spell and find themselves the victim of another of Fred's frankly brilliant executions.

Things had been getting boring waiting for James to return, and the longer it took for that to happen, the more Fred started to worry. So, he'd decided he needed something to take his mind off of things. He was about to start a small-to-medium-scale war against anyone and everyone he deemed an enemy.

'Done,' Clip said, from where he stood.

'Done,' Fred agreed, nodding firmly.

Fred waved his wand in a series of complex loops and whorls, uttering the string of concealment charms that he had perfected over the years of misdeeds. The gently glowing light array softly faded into the pale ochre of the unadorned ceiling, until his trap was barely indistinguishable from the rock around it.

He nodded, satisfied, when finished. Then he turned his gaze down to the floor below him and frowned slightly. Tripwires and triggers were James' domain. They required a finesse and delicacy that Fred had never quite mastered. "Ham-fisted" and "thick-headed" were most often the terms James used to describe Fred's few infamous attempts.

Fred tried as best he could, holding his wand delicately between thumb and forefinger, even standing upon his tip-toes atop the chair and adopting the most gentle, delicate pose he could muster. But he was a Beater, damnit. He was smash-and-crash, none of this delicate flower Chaser nonsense.

Nonetheless, he made what he assumed was a passable attempt, before gesturing Clip to dismount from his perch.

'W-why me? Clip asked, suddenly uneasy.

'You were late. You are my underling. I did all the work. And it was my idea.'

Clip grumbled, but did as directed, slowly easing himself down to place first one, then another tentative toe upon the suddenly-foreboding flagstones that lined the hall. Like a ballerina, he softly pattered across one way, and then the other, before stopping a few yards from Fred, and flinging his arms wide, as if he'd just performed an acrobatic feat.

'Ta-da!' he cried with a smile. 'I knew it would work.'

There was not a single sound to give away the triggering of the trap, as over a thousand tiny glass spheres exploded as one above them and coated both boys, head-to-toe in vibrant pink, sparkling dust that settled into their skin, robes, hair, and every nook and cranny, until the pair of them were like bright, glittering pink ghosts in the midday sun, staring glumly across at one another.

'I miss James,' Fred sighed in defeat.

* * *

Clip Wallace was the very picture of despondence, where he sat at a table in the far corner of the library. His eyes were downcast, his head was held in his hands, and his entire body was motionless, reeking of defeat.

That was not to mention the fine coating of glittery, pink powder that stuck to him from head to toe, and painted a faint trail leading back out the door and up through the corridors. It brushed off upon everything he touched, yet somehow didn't seem to be getting any thinner.

'Well, it could be worse,' Cassandra Featherstone tried to console him, reaching out a hand to rest upon his shoulder, but pausing, leaving it hovering awkwardly in the stale air between them.

'How, Cassandra? How could it be worse?'

'I- well… I do believe I'm not quite sure.'

Clip sighed heavily, blowing out a puff of dust all over the small pile of books between them. He slumped forwards, so that he was face-first on the bare wood of the desk. Around them, the sounds of pages being turned, and notes being scribbled played out the susurrating symphony of the library on a busy lunchtime. Usually calming to Clip, he let it all wash over him and succeed only in furthering his misery.

Across from him, at the small table they shared, Clip heard Cassandra shuffle uncertainly, and noted her breath hitch as she repeatedly started and failed to say something to console him. Brilliant though she was, Cassandra wasn't well known for her sentimental streak.

'I give up,' Clip mumbled into the table. He accidentally inhaled a mouthful of the stupid glittery dust and reeled backwards, nearly toppling off his chair as he hacked and coughed and rained glittery flakes all around him. Was the coverage getting _thicker?_ 'Now I _really_ give up.'

'A worthless sentiment. And though it pains me to even utter this sentence; that's not very _Gryffindor_ of you, Clip Wallace.'

'If James was here, this wouldn't even be an issue. The first week, it was manageable. I could deal with all the questions. "Where's James?" "When's he coming back?" But then, after the first week the vultures started circling. Caspar and his Glorious Goon-squad seem to be breathing down my neck. _Someone_ keeps hitting me with Trip Jinxes in the corridors. I'm falling behind in Charms _again,_ and now I'm a walking fucking fairy floss.'

He saw Cassandra visibly flinch at his cursing. A habit he'd picked up from spending time around James. Or, more likely, Fred.

'While I shan't fool either of us by suggesting I possess the solution to all of your problems, I'd rather like to help you with at least the one.'

'What's the point?' Clip mumbled forlornly.

 _Thwack!_ Cassandra had leaned over and smacked him over the back of the head with her gigantic book on Dragonology – _where had she produced that from?_ Clip rubbed the back of his head and scowled in her direction.

'I'll not apologise, Clip Wallace. You _deserved_ it.'

Her chin was stuck out defiantly, her jaw set, and her deep, brown eyes bore crinkles at the edges, in the way she did when she _wanted_ to scowl but was holding herself back. Just. She'd got a little of his pink dust on one hand, and at some point had rubbed her forehead, which glimmered and sparkled beneath her neatly-cut fringe. Merlin, but she was as perfect as Clip could ask for.

'Fine. Moping over. You may clean me, I guess.'

 _Thwack!_

'Ow! What was _that_ for?'

'I am not your House-elf Clip Wallace. You can damn well clean yourself.'

'You _know_ I can't cast the counter-charm.'

' _Finite_ should work. A general counter-charm, rather than one specifically for this… predicament. It's a simple third-year spell. You ought to be familiar with it.'

 _And even you should be able to manage it_ she didn't say, but Clip heard it nonetheless. It stung even more because he knew for a fact that he couldn't.

'Of course I know _of_ it. I know that the wand movements are an inverted "V", ensuring both arms are of equal length. I know that the correct enunciation requires stress on the second syllable, but not an extension of the sound. I know that anecdotal evidence exists to suggest that a tightening up of the "V" pattern, combined with a slight cursive tail on the rightmost arm can lead to a slow, drawn-out dispelling of magical effects, rather than an abrupt, instantaneous one. Which can be useful if one has applied a spell with too much force. I _know_ all of these things Cassandra, but none of them help be cast the bloody thing!'

She'd obviously chosen to ignore his cursing this time, and an odd look had come across her face. It passed momentarily, and she returned to the present, smoothing the front of her robe and focusing back on Clip.

'But, it's _simple,'_ she unhelpfully stated.

'Not for me, it isn't! I cast it, I envisage it, nothing happens. Look- forget it. I'll just go to the Hospital Wing, or something. You're not James, I won't learn anything from you.'

That brought forth a burst of indignation. Colour flared high on Cassie's cheeks, illuminating the scattering of freckles across her nose. 'How can James Potter be a superior teacher than I? He can barely charm his tie straight without it attempting to strangle him!'

Though her words were harsh, the tone was soft, and they both shared a wistful look in their eyes.

'I don't know, he just _does._ He makes me better, somehow. The same way he makes all of us better. Just by sort of… being there. He just makes it seem so easy. He doesn't try to _tell me_ it's easy. One time, he hit me with a Tickling Jinx, and I fired off the counter-jinx without even thinking about it. And I'd been struggling with that one all week!'

'Hmm, interesting. _Parvadola!'_

'Ow, Merlin Cassandra- what the hell!'

Clip cradled his hand close to his chest, where she'd hit him with a Stinging Jinx, unannounced. When the pain didn't immediately recede, he started shaking his hand vigorously. The rain of pink dust began to slowly build up in a small pile on the table between them. _Still,_ it didn't seem to be coating Clip any thinner.

'I- I was trying to be like James.'

'Well _don't._ Make it stop. I'm not in the mood for games.'

With a sad sigh, Cassandra uttered a _Finite_ of her own, and Clip set about gathering his books, stuffing them into his bag with a little more vigour than was entirely called-for.

'I'm going to shower before class,' he huffed, tossing his bag over his shoulder and storming out, before Madam Cresswell came to investigate the commotion and saw the horrific mess he'd made in her precious, sterile domain.

'If _James_ were here…' he could be heard mumbling as he stormed from the room, alone.

* * *

That afternoon's class found Cassandra Featherstone in an entirely new and foreign situation – one she'd never have even considered happening to her when she'd started at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

She was daydreaming in class.

Well, perhaps not daydreaming by the truest definition, but her mind was certainly distracted from the matters at hand, as she let Professor Plye drone on about the various restrictions on liquids-to-solids Transfigurations. It was a chapter Cassandra had read weeks ago in anticipation, so she forgave herself the small transgression and allowed her mind to wander. Just this once.

This particular Transfiguration lesson was shared with no other house. And so, as she had done all this year, she sat alone, right up the front of the class. Chloe Swann was _also_ in the front row, but Cassandra would run nude through the Forbidden Forest at midnight before she'd ever sit _next_ to that little monster.

Twice! Twice this year, Chloe Swann had bested her on test results. The thought alone forced Cassandra to clench her fists so hard her nails cut sharply into the palms of her hands.

But, to the matter at hand – even her daydreaming was becoming distracted – she'd made rather a disaster of things with Clip in the library earlier that day. She'd just got so flustered after he showed off all that knowledge on the theory of the _Finite_ spell, she hadn't been thinking straight. Her heart had been racing, and she'd experienced some unbidden and most unladylike thoughts. The mere memory of them caused a light flush to colour her cheeks, and she couldn't stop the small, private smile that danced across her lips.

'Did I say something amusing, Miss Featherstone?' Professor Plye snapped.

Cassandra yelped. There were a few snickers from behind her, and this time it was embarrassment that burned hot upon her cheeks. 'N-no. Not at all, Professor.'

She thought it a safe bet. Professor Plye rarely, if ever, said anything that could be mistaken for amusing.

'Well I assume, seeing as you are clearly so advanced in this class as to _not need to pay attention,_ that you can answer the question for us all.'

'Th-the question, sir?'

'Did I stutter, Miss Featherstone?'

Cassandra felt sweat prickle the back of her neck, and her heart started hammering an uncomfortable rhythm against her chest. It seemed awfully hot of a sudden. It was a wonder nobody had opened a window, never mind that a light snow had started falling outside.

Her mind fumbled back through the snippets she'd paid attention to. She felt the eyes of the entire class boring into her. Their desire for her to fail was almost palpable and bitter on her tongue. 'O-only when they are wet, sir.'

The laughter returned, this time, without even the decency to make it seem hidden. Cassie shrunk down in her seat.

'Your answer, Miss Featherstone, to the question of "When should a liquid be frozen before being Transfigured" is "Only when they're wet?"'

Oh. She'd guessed _entirely_ incorrectly, it would seem.

"Ten points from Ravenclaw, Miss Featherstone. And an extra two feet of parchment on the question asked, due on my desk by next Tuesday.'

Cassandra nodded meekly, not meeting the professor's eyes. She heard the snide whispers rustling through the students behind her. She saw the smug smile on Chloe Swann's face from the corner of her eye, and for a moment had to battle the urge to leap over and strangle the silly little girl.

'Don't worry, Cassandra,' Chloe whispered, her voice dripping with faux-cheeriness. 'We've still seventeen more house points than Hufflepuff, at the moment. We'll stay in first place.'

Cassie shot her a furious look back. 'It's _fourteen,'_ she hissed vehemently.

'And again, Miss Featherstone! Barked Professor Plye. ' _Twenty_ points from Ravenclaw. Need I threaten you with detention?'

'N-no, sir,' Cassandra stammered, lowering her gaze and shrinking down further in her seat.

'Not any _more,'_ Chloe's sing-song voice drifted over to her, satisfaction rolling off in waves.

Cassandra pulled her favourite Dragon Book from her bag and curled up around it, taking comfort from the warmth it always radiated. There were a few grumbles from around the room; she'd single-handedly lost them first place in the House Cup. Her! Cassandra Featherstone, who'd never lost a House Point in her life, had now lost _thirty_ in one lesson.

Professor Plye was targeting her, she was sure of it. As the head of Ravenclaw, such a harsh penalty made no sense; he was cutting off his nose to spite his face, just because he was a sympathiser with Caspar and his bullies. He'd been the professor to sweep their attack on Fred and Clip under the rug.

Cassandra was the perfect student for the remainder of the lesson. She took notes, she read with the class, and she tried desperately to ignore the needling stares that her classmates were jabbing her with. There would be harsh words spoken in the Ravenclaw Common Room later that night, she was certain.

Their subtle jabs had been easy to discount, or at least ignore, when she had had Rain by her side. A steady, steadfast presence who could make her worries fade away and the sting of their words dissipate beneath her calm, sea-green gaze. The loneliness was getting unbearable, and now, with James gone – not that she'd _ever_ admit it to him – she felt more isolated than ever within the castle.

She'd always thought of him as the glue, holding their strange band of misfits and delinquents together. Without him around, however, Cassandra wondered whether she fit in at Hogwarts at all.

* * *

A light dusting of snow hugged the ground, as she slipped through the great oak doors leading out of the Entrance Hall. Above her, the great, imposing façade of Hogwarts castle smiled benignly down. Lights winked and glimmered in its windows, like a benevolent watcher. Before her, the sun had begun to hide itself away, tucking in behind distant snow-kissed hilltops where it would bed down for the night and leave them with the quiet hours of darkness to contemplate their thoughts and reflect on the day that was.

Kattala Lovegood was humming softly to herself as she skipped across the courtyard. Behind her, the sounds of life from the castle faded and the openness of the dusky sky embraced her. She smiled a little.

From the corner of her eye, movement. She froze, turning on the spot. Beside her, the steady trickle of water from the fountain giggled in her ear and whispered rude things that nobody else could hear.

There, between the colonnades she spied one of _them,_ skulking and lurking and leering. The old witch with the forbidden name. Her stiff jacket was dark and perfectly pressed. Her gleaming boots announced her presence and told Cat to leave.

But she didn't. She waited and watched and hummed a little more angrily, now, as the old witch disappeared into the castle. When she'd gone, and the doors were fully closed, Cat gave a nasty little scowl at the spot she'd disappeared from, before continuing on her way.

'I'm sorry you had to see that,' she whispered to the tittering fountain, before she continued on her way. She didn't feel like skipping, any more.

Underneath the archway leading out to the grounds proper, she passed. Where the stone reached up to hold hands, she strode beneath with a whispered 'thank you.' The grounds spread out ahead, running away down the hill and hiding coyly beneath a thin veneer of snow. Just enough that only the bravest blades of grass dared peek up to say goodnight to the setting sun. They were rewarded though, in the way the light shone golden and warm and bright off of the glistening landscape all around. It made Cat smile again to see the grounds so happy.

Except, not _all_ of the grounds were happy.

The Forbidden Forest frowned up at her from the dark, shadowy valley that it occupied. Like a menacing, mysterious shadow where there oughtn't to be one at all, it hugged the low areas and the sides of the lesser mountains. It disappeared from sight in a place Cat knew was the great ravine, within which, they'd found the strange, golden-eyed monsters in the final weeks of last term.

Cat stopped to frown back at it. Teach _it_ for trying to ruin her evening. The Forest had been feeling… _off_ lately. It _always_ felt strange. In a sort of dark and foreboding way, it pulsed with a hidden power that was never quite revealed, always promising that it was around the next corner, luring the unwary adventurer deeper and deeper until escape was out of the question… But it was something different, now. And it had been for a long time. Almost as long as she could remember, really. Something unfamiliar, and aggressive and almost alien.

It reminded her of the Atlanteans – they'd _all_ felt that icy, foreign magical presence hovering over them like a frosty fog all through second year. But it wasn't _quite_ like that. Only a little. Like an echo, or an afterthought. Or that little pocket of air that was displaced after someone left the room, where they made a little breeze that sort of half smelled of them still for a moment before they were gone. Except this one wasn't going. And, oh, it was just so hard to explain!

Cat stomped her foot angrily on the snowy earth and balled her fists. She'd _tried_ explaining it to James, but he hadn't understood at _all._ He'd only spent the rest of the day walking around after her and sniffing her at odd times.

She paused for a moment to poke her tongue out at the Forest and enjoy a good pout. There was something to be said for a good, healthy pout, after all. It helped get all the bad feelings out and clear her head for what was to come.

Finally, with nose de-crinkled, tongue re-inserted and mind more relaxed, she continued on, down the path to Hagrid's Hut.

She didn't quite know _why_ she was headed there. Other than the enjoyable conversation, and the chance to kiss Hagrid's adorable dog. She was really only following her feet. She'd woke up feeling that today was to be a Yellow day. Yellow for intrigue, and exciting revelations. So far, nothing intriguing had been revealed to her at all – she certainly didn't count the time when Eldon Prescott had bent over and ripped his trousers to reveal purple underwear as even _remotely_ exciting. She'd already known that, after all.

She did know that it felt _right,_ though, when she knocked on Hagrid's door, and she heard movement from within. The sun was almost entirely hidden now, and a soft flickering glow danced privately behind the curtained windows. Cat's excitement bubbled as she heard Sirius' exciting barking from within.

'Evenin' Kattala!' Hagrid's voice boomed as he threw open the door. His voice was the sound of thunder laughing. Cassie had rolled her eyes when Cat had told her that, but it just _was._ The others didn't need to _understand_ it for it to be.

'Hello Hagrid!' she returned brightly. She gave him a hug. Like a good pout, Cat also enjoyed a good hug. And Hagrid was the only one she could hug without needing to bend down. Why did everyone else have to be so small?

'Wha' brings you by? I've been hopin' fer a visit from one o' you lot, since James… Well, you know.'

Cat nodded sagely. She _did_ know.

'I was following my feet. Well, really it was my toes, I suppose. And they led me here.'

She stopped to scratch Sirius behind the ears and gave him a big kiss when he leapt up to place his paws on her shoulders. Sirius was a hugger, too.

'As good a reason as any, I'd say! Have a seat, I was jus' preparin' some supper.'

Cat did as offered, and seated herself with her back to the window. Sirius lay his head in her lap and she idly scratched his ears as Hagrid bustled about, weaving deftly in and out through the tight confines.

'The Thestrals will like this weather,' Cat idly observed, as a gust of wind knocked upon the window pane. She didn't let it in.

'Oh, aye. I've been down ter see 'em most every day this week. Reckon there'll be a few foals before winter's over.'

'Ooh, wonderful. May I visit?'

'O' course! Bring yer friends. Well, I guess not James. But all the others, at least.'

Cat saw the way Hagrid became a little more sad, when he spoke about James. Nobody knew when he'd be back. Everybody expected it, but Cat wasn't so sure. 'Oh, I will. And when James returns, I'll bring him _twice.'_

'That's my girl.'

Some of the sadness went away, and Cat shone a private little smile to herself. Maybe it was a little lie, but it was worth it, if it made Hagrid happy, right?

'Have you killed any monsters lately?' Cat suddenly asked. She figured she might as well get down to the exciting revelations now. Darkness was creeping up, and Cat would have to fight her all the way back to the castle.

'That depends on what you'd call a monster,' Hagrid chuckled jovially. He set a steaming bucket of tea down before Cat, and seated himself opposite her.

Cat sipped tentatively at the tea. It tasted like lawn clippings. Excellent. She loved to try new things.

'Anything…stabby? With golden eyes and smells like rotten ice and wants to eat James' locket?'

'Er, none of the above. I have been meanin' to get a hold of yer, though. I've discovered-'

 _Boom, boom!_

A thunderous crashed shook the door on its hinges. Cat frowned quizzically at Hagrid. 'It wasn't me,' she told him. Cat had the feeling that she didn't want Hagrid to let them in. She stared at the door and silently willed it to stay closed.

She must not have been able to speak door, however, as it burst open and in strode Alabaster Shelby – the head Ministry wizard and greatest nuisance in the castle. Behind him scurried Caspar Helstrom. His eyes fell on Cat and he adopted a broad, smug smile. He smelled like farts and self-importance. Cat crinkled her nose. When he wasn't looking, she stuck out her tongue.

He'd _never_ have dared to be here if James was still around.

'Hagrid,' boomed Shelby. He spoke louder than he needed to. Perhaps he was trying to compensate for being so tiny compared to Hagrid. Cat was pretty sure even _she_ was taller than him. 'Bit late to be entertaining guests, don't you think?'

'We were just having a cuppa,' Hagrid replied. 'No harm in that.'

'Oh, I beg to differ. Bit inappropriate for you to be having private sittings with students out here, unsupervised.'

'I'm a ruddy professor of this school, you watch yer mouth.'

Caspar was strolling around the room with his nose upturned, idly poking and prodding various possessions of Hagrid's. Cat silently willed Sirius to go over and wee on him.

'For now, Hagrid. For now. Come, child. This meeting is over. We'll escort you back to the castle. Young Caspar here will look after you. Some crazies have been saying there's something lurking in the Forest. Think they've been listening to too much of Renshaw's mad nattering, if you ask me.'

'I didn't.' Cat scowled.

Shelby frowned back, as if surprised to find himself being addressed. Perhaps he was used to nobody listening when he spoke. Cat gave Hagrid a final hug, before following Shelby and Caspar out into the night. She put on her best pout, and stomped down the stairs most petulantly.

Outside, the moon was grinning down at her through the smoky clouds. When neither of her chaperones were looking, she grinned back. For clutched tightly in her palm, passed over upon their final, farewell hug, was a tiny scrap of parchment, folded many times. She started humming as they began the climb back up to the castle. It was a bubbly, excited tune, filling her with anticipation and eagerness to read Hagrid's secret note.

Mysterious revelations awaited her, she could tell. It _had_ been a Yellow day, after all.

* * *

All around Hogwarts castle the day began to draw to a close. Students vacated the corridors in favour of common rooms, or bed. Torchlights in deserted corridors began to fade and, eventually, winked out. Footsteps became fewer, and farther between. It was a contented sleepiness, the last stretches before the castle as a whole curled up for bed, finding that _just right_ comfy spot on the pillow.

Some students stood beneath the running water of the showers, watching as the days woes and the last of the pink dust washed away down the drain between their toes. Others had wrapped themselves up in their blankets already, small and quite sad, feeling a little alone. Still, there were more. Some sat ensconced by their curtains, hugging their knees and poring over mysterious notes, a slightly vexed frown on their brow as they realised they had none to share this news with.

So the bedtime rituals went for much of Hogwarts castle, as it embraced another night of sleep.

But this was not the case for _all_ of her students.

Tristan Macmillan paced a deserted first-floor corridor. Back and forth he walked. His eyes were distant, lost in thought. His steps were unwavering. His lips moved ever so slightly. Around him, the torches flared and faded as he passed. Lit one second and gone the next in a sort of rolling wave of light that sloshed up and down the hallway borne seemingly of Tristan's own volition.

His mind was in turmoil. So often, these days, he found that to be the case. The Council of Elders – the secretive group of seventh-years who ruled over the students of Hufflepuff house and ensured that their ideals of loyalty, dedication and hard-work were enforced – had hauled Tristan forward at the start of the term. Once again, to tell him that his behaviour was troubling.

They didn't see it, though. They saw his fraternisation with James Potter as something anti-Hufflepuff. Something likely to draw the spotlight. Something violent and bloody and – after James' outburst before the holidays – Tristan had found it hard to argue otherwise.

But he _knew_ he was staying true. To James, _and_ his house. The two weren't mutually exclusive. Though the Elders seemed intent on seeing it that way. It was like they'd been infiltrated by Caspar's Glorious Sacrifice, the way they spat such venom whenever James' name was mentioned.

Tristan saw them for what they were, though: afraid. He'd been so eager to meet the Council when he first started Hogwarts, and hopefully to one day join their ranks, and keep the name of Hufflepuff house pristine and golden, like so many generations of Council members had done before him. It had been a huge blow to discover they were little more than cowards, terrified by action, content only in hiding in the shadows and pervading their own breed of mediocrity and fence-sitting throughout all the members of their house. And so many of his house-mates drank it up like it was the word of Merlin himself!

They couldn't see that loyalty – the foremost of their virtues – was _worth_ risking a reputation for. They hadn't been there when James rushed to face down the Desecrator when Rain was in danger. They hadn't been there when he'd fought – and almost lost – to send the Atlanteans back to whatever frozen hell they came from. The hadn't seen him fight the Infection before it could be let loose in Hogwarts.

And they hadn't pulled him out of the mouth of a cave, bloodied, broken and half-dead, after he'd fought off a monster that no living wizard had ever even _seen_ before. James was the best of them, of that, Tristan had no doubt. He was the best of Gryffindor house. His bravery, his self-sacrifice, that intangible, unspoken way he could bring out the best in all of them, could get them to do incredible things – like _fist-fighting_ a bloody Atlantean! There was no doubt in Tristan's mind that James Potter would go down in history as one of the greatest Gryffindors ever.

So, he was going to make damned sure that the best of the Hufflepuffs would stand by his side as he did it.

He would do it for the glory of his house, certainly. But far, far more was for the kinship and the loyalty he felt to James.

He-

'Oh, darling! I thought I might find you down here.'

Tristan was torn free of his reverie. He wheeled to face the newcomer, wand sliding into his grip based on instinct alone.

'How did you find me?' he hissed. Chloe Swann faced him off down the corridor, dressed in a bright blue dressing gown with frilly lace upon the sleeves.

'You're so _handsome_ when you're angry,' she chirped, running to him and throwing her arms around his neck, so that Tristan was forced to catch her, lest she fall to the ground before him. 'You give simply the _best_ cuddles, darling.'

'How did you get here?' Tristan repeated, setting her down and taking a firm step backwards. He still hadn't sheathed his wand.

'Ohh, let's see,' she said, feigning thoughtfulness with a finger to her chin. Her nails were painted electric blue. 'Tonight you had Quidditch practice – which I watched. Then you had steak for dinner – which you have when you're feeling all broody and reticent. Then you _didn't_ go to the common room – because I followed you. That means you were trying to avoid the rest of your housemates. Which you do sometimes. But I haven't figured out _why._ Anyway, I lost you for a moment. But I knew that you wouldn't go too far. And I figured you'd want a good corridor to pace up and down, because you've been doing that a lot lately, since your friend left.'

'He didn't _leave._ '

'Well, he did sort of _disappear._ '

'He's coming back.' Tristan felt his anger rising. She just wouldn't get it. He wished she'd leave him alone. Permanently.

'Is he, though? Caspar said he's almost _certain_ to get an expulsion recommendation handed down from the Ministry. And maybe it's for the best, you know. James Potter _does_ cause a lot of trouble… And I saw what he did to poor Caspar. That was _terrible._ There must be something not quite right with him, to be able to do that to another student. Fighting like a Muggle-'

'Enough!' Tristan roared, drawing himself up to full height. He towered over Chloe comfortably. Irritatingly, she didn't so much as flinch. 'You _don't_ talk about James like that.'

'I'm just saying what everyone else is thinking.'

'Well you damn well don't say it around _me._ James is my friend.'

'And _I_ am your girlfriend.'

'For the hundredth time, Chloe; you are _not-'_

'Oh, yes, Tristan. I love it when you show that passion-'

'Excuse me.' A third voice interrupted the argument. Both of them turned to see a small, timid-looking second year student gazing up at them with wide, pale green eyes. Her bottom lip was trembling, and she looked on the verge of tears.

Tristan's scowl only deepened.

'I- I was wondering if you could help escort me back to my common room,' she all but whispered to Tristan. 'I was studying too late, and I lost track of time and now it's all dark, and there are _noises_ and I- I don't like going into the dungeons alone.'

Chloe pursed her lips. Tristan glowered back and forth between the two girls. Finally, he chose the lesser of two evils.

'Fine,' he grumbled. 'I'll take you. But stay close, and don't get lost.'

'Oh, don't worry, I'll stay _extra_ close.'

Without so much as a goodbye, Tristan spun on his heel and marched back up the corridor, away from where Chloe Swann was left, staring at his receding figure in silence.

'You're welcome, _again,_ ' Lilly Potter smirked, the moment the pair of them rounded a corner.

'What are you playing at?' Tristan hissed, rounding on her and halting their progress. The timid little second year façade melted away in a heartbeat, replaced instead with the haughty, reserved countenance of a budding young Slytherin. The way she regarded him made it somehow seem that _she_ was the one looking down on _him._

'Keep moving,' was all she hissed. 'We're being followed.'

Still grumbling, Tristan marched on. He felt some grim satisfaction at hearing Lily have to hurry her footsteps to keep up with his own long, purposeful strides. With shock, he felt her slip her delicate hand into his own. He tried to yank it away, but she held on tight.

'For safety,' she gazed up at him, the childish mask slipping back on so seamlessly again. 'So that I don't get _lost.'_

'You're going to get us both murdered,' Tristan hissed, keeping his eyes straight ahead. He took them the most secluded route he could think of. If somebody saw him walking around holding Lily Potter's hand after curfew… Who knew what sort of rumours that would spark. But then, that was just the way Lily wanted it.

'Mostly you,' she smirked. 'James would never lay a finger on his darling little sister.'

'You're not going to win this little game,' he shot back.

'Oh, but that's where you're wrong, Tristan. 'I _always_ win.'

'Well I'll look forward to being the first to beat you.'

'Oh, Tristan, you'll be my _first?'_

'That's not what I-'

Her laughter was loud and musical. She tossed her head back and her rich, golden-red hair shimmered in the torchlight. Tristan tore his eyes away and returned to staring directly ahead of himself.

'It's dangerous to date a girl cleverer that yourself,' she smiled.

'We're _not_ dating any more than Chloe bloody Swann is my girlfriend.'

'Not _yet,'_ Lily smiled.

They had arrived. The entrance to the Slytherin common room stood before them; the stark stretch of stone wall seeming to glow with an ethereal light from the green-hued torches that flickered in their brackets.

She turned towards him, her face only inches from his own. He _knew_ what she was angling for. But he wouldn't do it. He couldn't. His loyalty was to James. If he didn't have that, then what _did_ he have. If he was to be the best of Hufflepuff house, he simply _couldn't_ get involved with Lily. No matter how much she tried to force it on him.

No matter how much he was starting to want it back.

It would shatter everything that he stood up for, when the Council of Elders hauled him before their collective gaze. Every argument he hurled back at them, every point and action of his own that he vehemently defended. He was _loyal,_ he told them. If he took that away, then what was he?

Deserving of the excommunication they so loved to threaten him with, certainly.

He turned away as Lily's eyelids flickered closed, and he made his way back up the corridor. He didn't look back once. Lily's laughter haunted him all the way up out of the dungeons.

She'd have never dared such a move if James were around.

 _Hurry up and get back to us, old boy,_ Tristan thought. _I don't know how much longer we can all hang on without you._


	24. Bricks

Three hooded figures made their way across the open countryside in silence. They bore thick scarves, heavy jackets and long boots against the weather. Their heads were down, their eyes focused on the next step. On not turning an ankle on the uneven, rocky path that was slicked with mud from last night's rain. They walked close. The two taller figures flanked the smallest of the three. There was a comfortable familiarity with the proximity. All three scanned the surrounds, left and right. In a pattern that would preclude any nasty surprises.

At a small, rocky monolith marking a fork in the path, the trio stopped.

Harry Potter lowered his hood and loosed his scarf to allow himself to speak. An icy northerly breeze tugged at strands of his unkempt hair. His glasses bore a few stray flecks from the drizzle that was threatening, but never quite forming.

'Bloody nice day for it,' grinned Ron Weasley, similarly shedding his garb to reveal a wide grin decorating a freckled face painted ruddy by the cold.

The smallest of the three – James Potter – tucked his hands into his armpits and shivered from the cold. He left half of his face covered by a scarf that was blue and silky and was one of his most treasured possessions. It smelled like sea-green eyes and red-gold hair.

'The path carries on to the leeward side of this hill,' Harry Potter explained, gesturing to their left. 'We'll have more shelter there. Be able to talk, at least.'

'Bloody marvellous,' Ron grinned. 'After eight hours cooped up in a car with you all day, I was really hanging out to hear a bit more of your voice.'

'Whack him for me, would you James?' There was a smile in Harry's voice, though the others couldn't see it from where he'd started up the path.

'Reckon it's James who needs the whacking. Your fault we're travelling like this.'

'If the Ministry gets alerted to an underage wizard Apparating – even if it _is_ side-along – they'll be all over us in no time. We had no choice.'

James noted the lecturing tone his father often took when explaining things for the third or fourth time. By his count, this was actually the seventh. Uncle Ron wasn't a huge fan of the cold.

'So this friend of yours,' Ron changed the subject. 'She just up and disappeared at the end of last year? No note, no explanation, nothing. She just tries to blow my head off and then, _poof!_ Gone.'

The path they took around the side of the hill was sheltered somewhat from the blustering wind. It was narrow and rocky and fell away sharply to their left. Below them, a treacherous, rugged drop awaited, with a swift end in the rocky riverbed far below.

'Well, if you hadn't tried to _attack_ her…'

'She fired first! What do you take me for, some lout who prances about popping spells off at fourteen-year-old girls left and right?'

'We were trying to find Alder! She had the _Sanocultus_ plants to give him. If you'd _told_ us you were parading Teddy about the countryside as a decoy to lure out the Desecrator then you wouldn't have gotten in each other's' way!'

'Your girl knew about Teddy, mate. I barely had time to open my mouth before she was ramming her wand down it and screaming fake.'

'If you'd-'

'Enough.' Harry Potter halted where he had been leading the group. He turned to face the pair, an unnaturally stern expression darkening his demeanour. 'James, before we arrive today, I think it time we told you a few things we know about this girl you think is your friend.'

'She _is_ my friend.'

Harry only nodded and gave James a tight-lipped smile. They'd paused on a section of the track which had widened, allowing them to stand three abreast. The grass on the hill above them had melted away and exposed raw earth and naked bedrock through the thinning soils. Thin strata of greys and browns stepped up towards the rocky hilltop in alternating layers. Perfectly flat, defiant in their order against the chaos of the howling wind and relentless ocean that they could begin to hear in the distance. Harry was stroking the beginnings of a beard, lost in thought about where to begin.

James used a rocky outcrop as a sort of stool and loosened his scarf further. He ran a hand through his hair in anticipation. He hadn't noticed, but his heart was beating faster. But it had nothing to do with their destination, and everything to do with what his father was about to reveal.

Because, if James was truly, brutally honest with himself – in a way that was uncomfortable and confronting – he had his doubts. About Rain. About everything she'd told him. About his relationship and his judgement of her. They had manifested only late in his third year. When she had had less and less believable excuses for the way she was acting. More and more secrets he felt being kept. And then she'd stolen the _Sanocultus_ Sap from him – twice. Even after he'd confronted her to return it. The tiniest seedling of doubt had found fertile soil in which to spread, and the nagging feeling that he was being used for something greater, something sinister, had never quite left him since that day.

But she was his _friend._ He'd fight the Founders themselves to bring her back. He already almost had. Twice.

'I suppose it's best to start at the beginning,' Harry said. A distant look clouded his green eyes. He stood now with his back to the direction they had been travelling, gazing back up the path, but seeing little of it.

'That'd seem to make sense,' Ron quipped, non-verbally conjuring a small fire to sap the chill from their extremities. It fluttered tremulously, but the lee of the hillside was enough shelter to give it life.

James studied the pale blue flame, feeling his resolve quiver along with it.

'Bloody master at these now,' Ron grinned, noting James' regard.

'You only burned the living room down twice while you practised,' mumbled Harry absentmindedly.

James made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. He'd felt the pang again. That sharp, resonating sensation of loss that came whenever he saw someone so casually cast magic without a thought. Without his wand, he had been feeling exposed all holidays. Out here, on their secretive mission, he felt downright naked.

'We grew interested in your friend at the end of first year,' Harry continued.

'Her _name_ is Rain.'

'As I said. At the end of first year, she and Teddy were lying, unconscious in St. Mungo's. It was our job, as we were still leads of the Auror department, to investigate the incident.'

James looked back and forth between the both of them. 'She was kidnapped. What was there to investigate?'

'Plenty,' was Harry's level reply.

'We looked at both hers and Teddy's wands, to try and piece together a story of what had happened,' Ron explained.

'Why couldn't you just use Legilimency? It'd show she's innocent straight away.'

'Will you stop interrupting for a moment and let us tell the story?'

James bit his lower lip and nodded his acquiescence.

'Using Legilimency on a fourteen-year-old girl is _not_ standard Ministry Procedure,' Harry replied flatly. 'And even if it were, it's not how _I_ do things. Teddy offered his mind for examination willingly, but we found it clouded and befuddled, far more than what an Imperius Curse ought to account for.

'It was a method we'd seen only once before in all our time as Aurors. A method used by the Desecrator the night he struck first – the night he destroyed the Mirror of Erised and framed a group of hapless souls in an attempt to throw us off the trail.'

'Proof that it was the Desecrator that Imperiused Teddy.' James couldn't stop himself this time.

'Not quite, but as close as we were going to get.'

'And what does any of this have to do with Rain? There was nobody else there, that night. I didn't see anyone else that could have been the Desecrator.'

'We examined both of their wands,' Harry continued. 'Performed extensive _Priori Incantatem_ analysis and were able to reconstruct the last handful of spells each had cast. Teddy had cast a range of complex and powerful spells relating to the Heart which he has never been able to reproduce since, but, more interestingly, he also cast a single Imperius – presumably upon Zoe Meadows, in order to coerce her into following through with his plan.'

'Oh,' James breathed. 'Shit.'

He'd not thought of this before. At least not in this way. Zoe was well-known as an exquisite duellist and James had seen first-hand the power that her diminutive frame could wield. There weren't many witches or wizards around who would be able to outmatch her in a fair fight. But her infatuation with Teddy would have meant that her guard was down. And the fact that he'd just returned to the castle – unannounced – after weeks away would have given him the moment he needed to get the jump on her, in the midst of her shock at his sudden reappearance. Which meant…

'The Desecrator knew about Teddy and Zoe.'

'Ten points to Gryffindor,' Ron smiled, twirling his wand lazily between his fingers. 'Someone was somehow close enough to know about that little love affair when even Victoire wasn't fully aware of it.'

James had told all his friends about Zoe and Teddy. He remembered the conversation clearly.

'Teddy being Imperiused wasn't by chance. He was targeted, possibly for this very purpose.'

James shifted on his rock. Suddenly a lot more uncomfortable than he had been.

'W-what about Rain's wand, then?' he asked.

'And the plot thickens!' Ron laughed. Harry shot him a stern gaze that stifled the laughter in a hurry.

'Only one spell fired since the basic Defense she had been practising before the incident with Professor Meadows. A single Stunner.'

'Well, that makes sense. When she realised what was going on, she must have tried to attack Imperiused Teddy.'

'Possible. Although Zoe Meadows was found at the scene of the incident, Stunned. And Teddy's wand never cast a Stunner that night.'

'That doesn't mean a thing. He could have taken Rain's wand. She might have surrendered it to him right at the start. He could have commanded Professor Meadows to stun herself under the Imperius. That doesn't prove a _thing.'_

James' breathing was getting heavy. He was no longer cold, though the temperature hadn't changed a bit.

'Tell me what you recall of that night, James.' Harry asked earnestly.

'I've told you before. Holly and I ran to save Rain. He had Rain trapped behind some kind of barrier, and there was this magic. Like a… a sickness, coming from her. We… we briefly fought the Desecrator – Teddy, I guess – and then… then the Steelhearts showed up. I think Holly got hit by a stray spell. Then… that's all I can remember. The memory is foggy. It was a long time ago, now.'

Harry and Ron both nodded. The sound of a particularly loud wave crashing into the rocky coast broke the silence between them.

'That's the same story we heard, as well,' Harry finally spoke.

James heard the scepticism in his tone. 'You don't _believe_ me?'

'It's not _you_ we don't believe, James. The Steelhearts and Renshaw told us a similar story. Though frustratingly, none of them were made available for interrogation relating to the incident.'

'Not to mention,' Ron added with a sour grimace. 'That there wasn't a single injury on any of them. The power of the magic on display at the scene of the incident that night was staggering. It's a wonder they weren't all wiped out entirely. Instead, not a single scratch. Odd, if you ask me.'

James felt his heart flutter. 'If my memory has been altered…'

'Then neither of us can do a thing about it. That's far from our expertise, and there isn't anyone around we can trust to have a look at you.'

The thought made James physically ill. He did recall battling to push through the Steelhearts on the way to the eighth floor. Had they done this as revenge, as a way to take the glory, or were there more secrets being kept at Hogwarts than he had ever imagined?

'So, to summarise,' Ron said matter-of-factly, counting off points on his fingers. 'We've got a strange girl inexplicably failing a class she's excelled at all year to wind up perfectly in the wrong place at the wrong time, where she doesn't even say boo to stop Imperiused Teddy, and a Professor of the school stunned at the scene of a major crime, by her wand. It was enough to convince your father and I, at least, that we weren't chasing mist by digging a bit deeper into just who this girl was.'

'But it doesn't _prove_ anything. Rain almost _died_ that night.'

'Which still perplexes us to this day. And makes us wonder if she was a willing participant in league with this Desecrator, or if she, herself was just another an unwitting victim, much like Teddy and Zoe.'

'Or if she had no prior involvement _whatsoever_ , and was just kidnapped and almost killed! How is that _her_ fault?'

Harry frowned and crossed his arms firmly, studying James over the top of his glasses in a way that made James feel as if his father could see right through him. 'James, we told you that we'd tell you all we know, and all that we suspect. You need to buckle up and listen, or we'll turn around and head back home right now if you're going to be so thick-headed about it all.'

James allowed himself a moment longer to stew in indignation before giving a sullen nod. 'Sorry. Continue.'

But Harry hesitated. He cocked his head to the side and frowned at James. Well, _through_ James might have been more accurate. All three stayed silent and motionless, suddenly alert and on edge.

'No,' Harry finally said. 'Let's keep moving. We'll finish the story another time. On the drive home, perhaps. Somewhere where your mother won't hear.'

James sighed in resignation, but pushed himself up to continue. He avoided Ron's probing gaze by focusing overmuch on affixing his scarf and rubbing his hands together. He didn't want to talk about it, didn't want to think too hard. He shied away from piecing parts of the story together that he'd deliberately kept repressed in his mind, and the ramifications of it all. She couldn't have been complicit in all of this, she just _couldn't._ James refused to believe it.

The three of them continued along the narrow path, hugging the edge of the hillside which became progressively more rocky and rugged as the sounds of the ocean grew before them. James had to keep one hand up against the rock beside him for balance. And he was picking his way through treacherous, loose rubble and over jagged outcropping boulders by the time the ground flattened out and they arrived at their destination.

The cliffs that marched out to do battle with the wild ocean were flat-topped and sheer-sided all up and down the cost as far as James' eye could see. Except for this single one. Here, the land slanted away gently, halfway-down the staggering drop to the waves below. The slope was hollowed out, in a sort of gentle depression, as if some gigantic figure had scooped a handful of the earth away. In it, grass grew. And rows of neatly-tended flowerbeds suggested that the area was far from abandoned. The natural depression sheltered the grounds from the winds entirely, so that the most delicate roses and ornate flowering shrubs welcomed the trio with a riot of colour so garish and bold against the grey, gritty backdrop that was so stark and rugged and lifeless.

And in the centre of it all, at the end of every garden path and positioned upon a gently elevated platform stood a small stone building with no windows. One side of it looked to have exploded; bricks and rubble were strewn all around, and a wide, yawning darkness bled out of the gap they left. It was the only mark upon the otherwise-perfect scene.

James started as the three of them left the path and a rattling, clattering sound came from behind them. He watched in horror as the path they had just traversed slid, first slowly, and then with a raging violence, down in to the ravine. Boulders and dust tumbled, creating an ear-splitting racket that ended only when the final handful of scree had hit the water below. The wind snatched the dust away quickly, and soon there was barely a scar left on the side of the hill. Almost nothing to denote that a path had ever existed at all.

'Bloody hell,' James aptly summarised.

'Well, we can't have the Muggles finding this place, can we?' Ron grinned, looking smugly like he knew something that James didn't. 'Illusions like that keep them out. Same way if theu saw Hogwarts, it'd only be a broken-down ruin to them. That path wouldn't be anything more than the leftovers of a landslide.'

'Where exactly _are_ we?' James asked.

'Somewhere in Devon,' Ron unhelpfully answered the same way he had each of the thirty-six times James had enquired as to their destination on the drive over.

'This,' Harry said solemnly. 'Is the final resting place of Nicolas and Perenell Flamel. It was the home they retired to in order to live out their final years. And, when those were at an end, that home became their Mausoleum. These gardens, their memorial. Perenelle always did love flowers.'

It took James less than a couple of seconds to work out the significance of the location. Perhaps it was because their conversation had the Desecrator so prominent in his mind, but he knew instantly that they'd come to the place where it all started. The site of the Desecrator's first attack. The birth of the infamous legend. The destruction of the Mirror of Erised, and the desecration of the tombs of the Flamels.

'Where it all began,' Ron breathed, mirroring James' thoughts. 'Before this, there was nothing. Before this, we were making a living catching petty thieves smuggling in contraband from southern Africa, or selling unregulated wands out back of Knockturn. Before this, we were actually _employed.'_

It was the first time that day that James had seen his father grin. 'Before this,' Harry Potter spoke. 'Life was boring.'

Ron slapped his leg and roared with laughter. James took a moment to be in awe of the attitude of his father and Uncle.

'But why now?' James eventually asked as they began to approach the gardens. 'Surely, you would have investigated this when you were with the Ministry.'

'Oh, aye,' Ron answered, as Harry bent down to inspect a muddy footprint on the grass before them. 'But this time, we've got us a secret weapon.'

'M-me?' James couldn't help but swell his chest a little in pride.

The gesture lasted half a heartbeat as Ron burst out laughing again, and ruffled James' hair amicably. 'And to think they all said you'd have an ego, being the first-born of Harry Potter! No, my boy. Not you. A little Christmas present from our dear Luna.

Harry bent down to examine a scuff on the path ahead. When he straightened again, he'd drawn his wand. Silently, Ron guided James into a protective position between the two of them. James tried his best to look alert, but without his wand he felt like dead weight. A liability to the mission. He didn't know what to do with his hands.

'One person,' Ron whispered into James' ear from behind. 'Maybe a week past. Came alone. Disapparated.'

James was shocked that Ron had gathered all of that by merely gauging Harry's response. He hadn't looked at the tracks at all. 'How can you-'

'If it was a real threat, you'd know about it. Besides, this place is still a memorial. The Flamels helped a lot of people in their six hundred-odd years of life. Witches and Wizards come from around the place to pay their respects. Even despite the obvious sacrilege on display.'

Evidence of this revealed itself to James as the group made their way through the last immaculate hedgerow and emerged onto a wide lawn leading up to the dais upon which the Mausoleum stood. Bunches of flowers decorated the single step. Roses and Lilies and all manner of things captured beautifully in full bloom. One bunch had been Charmed to continually blossom, and another to wave in an imaginary breeze. The innocence of the gesture next to the startling destruction all around was almost visually jarring to James.

They mounted the stone dais and Harry and Ron fanned out, ensuring they flanked James on either side at all times. The building was constructed of large, square marble blocks, two or three times the size of James' head. They'd have been impossible to lift alone. And must have taken several wizards to levitate them into place without exhaustion.

Whoever had blown the wall of the Mausoleum hadn't cared a whit for any of that. Fragments and chips of stone lay all around the dais, and dust had even settled out upon the perfectly-manicured grasses that surrounded the building. The edges were rough and jagged. Entire blocks had been reduced to mere pebbles that James could have fit easily in his hand.

And over all of it was coated a thick, black substance that drew James' eye like a magnet to a lodestone. It _looked_ like a thick, gelatinous liquid. Only… when it caught the light just right, James was certain he could see through it like a thick sort of smoke. It was dark – stark against the pale white marble – and occasionally revealed flashes of deep purple or flickering argent silver within it, speaking of a depth that James couldn't' fathom from the thin residue that it appeared to be. And then there was the sense of _wrongness_ when the approached it. Like it was something so outrageous and unwelcome and alien that its mere existence was an affront to their world and everything in it. James felt offended by the substance, feeling himself being goaded in to attacking it.

'Don't, whatever you do, touch it,' Ron warned. James hadn't realised he'd stepped out of line towards a small pool of the stuff gathered in a shattered hollow of the dais.

It was, James realised familiar to him in some way. Then it hit him with an almost physical force.

'Rain's scar!' he blurted out. His voice echoed off the steep, rocky walls that bounded the hollow in which they stood. 'This black stuff, it looks. Well, more like it _feels_ like Rain's scar on her, her…' James gestured to his own chest, and the offending area.

Harry raised his eyebrows pointedly.

'Just how _friendly_ are you with this girl, huh?' Ron asked with a smirk.

'Not _physically_ feels. Just, that sort of weirdness. Like it's _wrong,_ in some way, or something.'

Harry was nodding. 'It's the Desecrator's signature mark. Every site he has attacked has left the same residue. It's powerfully magical, and twisted beyond our comprehension. Nobody has figured a way of removing it without going entirely mad from the touch.'

'But that's on Rain's…' James let out a low whistle, impressed and horrified all at once.

'Exactly. Which made us think she might have just been another unwitting accomplice under control of the Desecrator. At least at first. How she's still alive beggars belief. _If_ she is still alive.'

'She is,' James said, firmer than he'd meant to.

They continued inside. James took a care not to touch any of the substance as he crossed the threshold. The hole blown in the wall was easily large enough for them to step through. The magical power involved was impressive, in its own scary way.

Within, the building was simple, almost stark. There were no great riches. No wealth of gold as one might expect from the man who had invented the Philosopher's Stone. The floor was a pale grey marble. A more reserved colour than the gleaming white of the walls outside. Tiny flecks and veins of some mineral or other lay scattered across it. It almost seemed like they formed a pattern from the corner of James' eye, but every time he tried to focus on it, any semblance of order eluded him. The effect was mind-bending, and more than a little nauseating.

The building was small, only a dozen or so paces in either direction. The wall nearest James – along the back of the building, as it had been erected, was lined with stone busts of stern looking gentlemen. He noticed a similar strong, aquiline nose and heavyset square jaw of many of them. Ancestors, then, of Nicolas Flamel. On the far side of the building, a row of regal women with high cheekbones and the same playful smile announced Perenelle's counterparts.

In the centre of the room was two doors. One, James knew led back outside. The front door which would have been sealed – both by Magical and Muggle means – once the Flamels had been interred. The other, he presumed, led down to their final resting place. It was similarly shut tight, and the faintest of silvery glows still flickered around the edges, ominously warning any who might think to pry further into the tomb and attempt to break the Seal.

But none of these things took James' attention so much as did the object in the centre of the room. Once a gleaming, powerful magical artefact, the Mirror of Erised was shattered beyond any hope of repair. Shards of broken glass littered the floor all around them, coated with the same ghostly black sickness that marred the chunks of stone outside. If anything, it was even thicker in here, pooling in small depressions and swirling menacingly, as if stirred by a breeze that James knew didn't exist.

His breath caught as he glanced into one of the fragments. It reflected something of the roof above them, lit from the breach in the wall behind. But there was something else within that shard of glass. Something _more._ It seemed that the reflection went deeper, beyond the regular silvered surface. Something stirred in the background. Shapes, or hints of shapes. James didn't bother looking up – he knew it wasn't a reflection. How he knew, he couldn't be sure, but he was absolutely certain of it. This thing was moving _within_ the Mirror. Such a concept would have seemed crazy to him not two minutes prior, but he hadn't been able to take his eyes off it since entering.

'You see it too, then?' Harry asked.

'What is it?'

'We haven't a clue. Some remnant or Shard of the magic that once powered the Mirror. It was a supremely powerful magical artefact. I don't think even I grasped the beginnings of it during my time at Hogwarts. It's a good thing Dumbledore ended up entrusting it to Flamel. The thought of it now still sends shivers down my spine.'

Staring at that ghostly, endless fragment, James was inclined to agree.

Movement from behind them, as Ron shuffled and grunted, pulling a strange-looking contraption from a deep pocket within his coat. It was a handheld device, almost in the shape of a Muggle pistol, except it bore two handles – one jutting out either side – and the muzzle was filled with a thin, hollow copper tube with a glass bead the size of James' thumbnail attached to the end. James looked from the object to his father, curious.

'Dearest Luna finished this not a few weeks back. Something she's been working on as part of… Well one or other of her studies of the Magical esoteric. But this time, I think she's on to something useful. This contraption might give us the first lead we've had on the Desecrator since his appearance.'

'What does it do?' James asked.

'You asked why we're coming back after all these years?' Ron said. 'It's because of this. Because this little beauty can sample the magic – any magic that leaves an imprint – and get the… the _flavour_ of it, if you will. So that it will know exactly which wand cast the spell that did it.

'All magic leaves a mark. And powerful magic leaves a lingering impression long after the spell has been cast. Ripples in the Magical Flux. Disturbances, like a stone tossed onto the surface of a calm pond. That's how Luna explains what happens when we cast a spell. The stronger the spell, the deeper the ripple. Something like this, well it leaves waves that take years, perhaps even decades to recede. Luckily for us, the residue left behind is still more than strong enough for us to get a sample.'

'Blimey,' James breathed. 'That's impressive. Like a never-ending _Priori Incantatem._ '

'Precisely. All we've got to do now is find the Desecrator-'

'And ask to borrow his wand…'

'Say, James, what do you say you invite your little ginger friend over for dinner when she eventually pops back into existence?'

'What- _Rain?_ You can't think- Surely not- That's ridiculous!'

'Just a theory,' Ron said, holding his hands up defensively. The device wobbled about and let out an almost happy little _wheee_ sound.

'She might be the only lead we've got,' Harry offered, not quite apologetically. 'We've got to start somewhere.'

James grumbled as Ron bent down and dipped the glass bead into one of the pools of blackness, careful not to touch it with any of his exposed skin. Did James dare risk it all by exposing Rain to this? If he believed in his own assertions that she was innocent, then it shouldn't be an issue, right? It was probably a moot point, anyway. They still had to locate her, first. He didn't feel any closer to doing that than he had at the start of the year when she first when missing.

James' meandering thoughts were interrupted by a shark _crack_ that made him jump. It sounded like somebody had dropped one of the stones outside. Or… or like somebody appearing via Apparition. Harry and Ron shared significant looks. The instrument whirred in Ron's hands, and he hastily whipped it away the moment it ceased making a noise. It got stuffed unceremoniously into his pocket, never mind the flecks of black matter that splashed about across the room.

'Out,' barked Harry. _'Now!'_

The three rushed towards the exit. Outside, James saw a single figure, standing on the manicured lawns not ten yards from their own position. He wore a black cloak with a high, stiff collar, and black gloves concealed his hands. But on his breast bore an unmistakeable bright red logo: The flaming, wire-crossed heart of the Steelhearts.

Before James could even react, he felt a hand grab him by the collar, and a sensation like being forced through a tiny tube came over him. Once, twice, three times they Apparated in quick succession, desperate to shake any potential tail. A field, a forest, and a snow-laden valley flashed before James' eyes before they finally paused to catch their breath behind a tall, overgrown hedgerow.

James leaned over and emptied his stomach into the long grass beside them.

'Warded,' Harry breathed. 'Must have been some kind of silent trigger.'

'We should have checked,' was Ron's grim reply.

James played it all out in his head, impressed with the speed at which his father and Ron had been able to react. One detail, though, stuck in his mind. The moment he thought of it, he wondered how he'd ever missed it.

'Hold on…' he said. 'Those bricks… that hole, the explosion. They were blasted _outwards._ That wasn't someone breaking _in_ to Flamel's tomb. That was someone – or some _thing_ – breaking _out.'_

He thought back to the pristine wards surrounding the door to the lower levels. It didn't look like their bodies had been disturbed at all.

Harry and Ron laughed together, both devoid of any sort of mirth.

'And now you see,' Harry said. 'Just how complex this story becomes.'


	25. Interlude IV

Rain could feel her mind pulling away from her. Although, no. That wasn't quite right. It was being peeled away. Layer by excruciating layer. Like a flimsy shelter before a raging typhoon, she could feel it disintegrating piece by piece. Holding it together was like cupping water in her bare hands. No matter how hard she tried, some always managed to slip through the cracks.

And when one's mind was as crowded a place as Rain's was, that was a dangerous situation, indeed.

She had managed to keep _most_ of her secrets hidden. The key ones, at least. She had shown as little as possible of _Her_ to the woman who was her jailor. Her torturer. Who had become her provider and supervisor and the only human contact she ever experienced. Her world. Rain had erected mazes and misdirections. She built increasingly-feeble fortifications and offered up miscues that grew more and more futile by the day.

But this woman, her captor, was dogged. Her persistence was unwavering. She wanted _Her,_ to pry her from Rain's increasingly-frail grasp. Clumsy and childish though her ministrations were, any child with a complex puzzle could eventually solve it – by sheer dumb luck, if nothing else – as long as she had enough time.

On top of this, Rain had been months, now – surely, it had been months – without access to her Locket. Her shield. Her sanctuary. The fading waif that she was become was a mere shadow of the women she had once been. Of any of them.

Cold laughter rang out in Rain's pitch-dark cell. She had become a ghost.

Rain shivered. She was curled into a ball in the far corner of her cell. The stone floor was uneven, chipped and slicked with damp and mould. She could hear the water dripping, always dripping, from a crack in the roof above her. She could _sense_ it trickling in little runnels down, between the bricks. She could feel it, huddled in little pools in the far corner, and captured in the small bowl they used to feed her each day.

But as much as it called to her – it _sung_ to her – she couldn't reach out and embrace it. That was, perhaps, the greatest torture of all. So long, it had been, since she felt the caress of cool water against her skin. The laughter of droplets dancing at her fingertips, the chatter of icicles freezing at her will. They'd severed her ability to breathe life into herself. Through drugs, or spells, or wards, Rain didn't care to know. Whatever it was, she'd not have the strength to overcome them, now.

A disturbance roused her. Footsteps, outside her cell. Again, so soon? She raised her head. Lank strands of hair fell haphazardly across her face. She'd long since ceased tearing the blindfold from her eyes each time they reapplied it. There was nothing to see down here, anyway. A scratching, the mutter of spells and that empty feeling of dissolution that smelled of banished wards, and then the door creaked open. Her gaoler had returned _._ Rain could tell by the uncertain cadence of her footfalls. By the raspy, shallow breathing. By the occasional sob she uttered. She'd given up the game of trying to be kind to Rain when Rain had snapped at her to pull herself together and stop cowering behind the conceit that she wasn't every bit as complicit in this as her boss, the man in the dark cloak. The one who knew about _Her._

Rain allowed herself to be led up, out of her cell. Her feet knew the way, by now. Her blindfold was barely an impairment. Up a narrow flight of winding stairs. Along a corridor that smelled of incense and, occasionally the sharp tang of explosives. Through a set of double doors that hid the heady aroma of raw, unfettered, magical energy. It burned so bright and carnal and intoxicating that she felt she could almost lose herself within it. A melancholic sigh escaped her lips as she heard the doors swing shut and her sense of anything untoward vanished in an instance.

Finally, they marched down one last corridor to the room where she was strapped to the bed. Bound, gagged and restrained. Although Rain had the distinct feeling that nobody would be around to hear her scream.

Shaking hands finished tying the cloth around Rain's mouth. She felt the touch of the woman stroke her cheek and brush a strand of grimy hair from her blindfolded eyes.

'I'm sorry,' she whispered. As she always did.

And as _she_ always did, Rain found it in herself to scowl, as if she was unafraid entirely. 'Get it over with,' she snarled. 'Sanity is boring.'

* * *

Gwendolyn Tuft placed the glass of water back upon the counter. Her jittering, shaky hands almost knocked it over again instantly. Merlin, but that girl chilled her. It made her feel sick. All of it. She made _herself_ sick, with what she had done. What she continued to do. What she was terrified that she would eventually finish.

'Progress?' Raven sat across from her in the low-ceilinged room. He slouched upon a comfy chair, one leg thrown over the arm rest. His long, dark cape was tossed across the back. The few remaining feathers that gave him his name were ragged and bare.

A low light flickered above them – disembodied – not supported by candle or lamp, it merely _was_. It floated lazily, drifting back and forth in a haphazard circle between the two of them, ignoring the draft that skittered across the room from the open door behind Gwendolyn.

'S-some, Lord.'

'Raven has always sufficed, Gwendolyn.'

She scrunched her eyes shut, blinking out tears, and nodded. She _tried._ She tried so hard to distance herself from him. From the girl. From everything that they were doing. But nothing and nobody would allow it. _This is what you signed up for_ they all jeered. _You knew the price._

'Y-yes, Raven.'

'Well?' his prompt was gentle yet bore a firm undercurrent. Obviating the fact that he would brook no further silliness.

Gwendolyn sucked in a deep, steadying breath and let her eyes mist over. Facts, that was all that she was reporting, simple facts. This was just another experiment, like any number of the ones she'd done before. The fact that her results twisted the mind and flensed the soul of a fourteen-year-old girl was something that she'd give anything to distance herself from.

'Something is weakening her, I believe.'

'Then your ministrations are working?'

'No. Well, yes, they are. But I don't think it is I that is causing the weakness. Rather, my success grows because she is being weakened externally. I think something is eating away at her. Or, no. That's not it. Erm… she's not _whole._ Does that make more sense? Like something, some part of her isn't here. And she is slowly dissolving, because of that.'

'We've always known that there were many pieces to this particular puzzle.'

So, _so_ many. Gwendolyn shuddered, remembering the thousands of vivid images and memories that would assault her, whenever she strapped the girl to the table each afternoon.

'Not like that, though. All of _those_ pieces are there, I think. The three Cores are distinct, yet whole. It is her wound that troubles; it is not healed. And I cannot fix it.'

'To be expected, better Witches than you have tried already.'

That stung. But it was probably true. Raven had a way of speaking the truths that hurt the most.

'Regardless, it weakens her defences. Allows me to manoeuvre more freely. I report incremental progress again.'

'And this sickness will not impede your work?'

'No, her body will not perish before I finish my work, of that I am certain. I can separate them all, now. In my mind at least. The… _feel_ of them, at least. All three. Core, Mind and Soul. So delicate, and intricate. Peeling them apart is the hardest thing I have ever done. And she hides from me, I can sense it. Delays me with red herrings and unimportant memories. If I could only-'

'Do whatever you must,' Raven interrupted. 'You know you have my leave to act freely.'

Gwendolyn paused for a moment. Her tears had dried, her hands had stilled, and she had been speaking confidently, even passionately. He'd done it again, manipulated her back from the brink of despair, prodded her in just the right way so that she would see the excitement in what she did, the theoretical beauty of it all, and ignore the humanitarian horror.

'As for after your work is finished?'

'After, it will not matter. Once the specimen is free, the body will be a shell. A husk. Dead in all but name. The sickness can take her then.'

'Good,' Raven grinned, pushing himself up to his imposing height. 'See that it does.'

And he swept from the room without another world, leaving behind him an emptiness large enough to swallow the life of a fourteen year old girl.


	26. Dinghy

James' letter requesting his presence back at Hogwarts had been waiting on the kitchen table when he returned from the Flamel's tomb. Although, it was less of a request, and more of an instant demand fraught with thinly veiled threats and the promise of Ministry-level retribution should he put so much as a toe out of line again.

He was bundled out the door the very next morning before the sun had even risen. It had been an easy task to relocate all of his school equipment and stuff it back in his trunk. He'd hardly unpacked since term had ended. The part of him that had always _believed_ that he was going back had left his things ready and waiting to return at a moment's notice.

His father took him to the Ministry, where they arrived via the Visitor's Entrance. James stared curiously at the strange Muggle contraption his father called a _payphone_ while the ground rose up around them and they sunk down into the bowels of the earth, and the Entrance to the Ministry of Magic.

Their time there was mercifully short. James felt a bit of a tool, lugging around his clattering, rattling trunk with its gammy wheel that badly needed a maintenance charm or three. They received chilly stares that never _quite_ devolved into outright hostility, as Harry bustled him through the Atrium, past the grand, golden statue of a Witch and a Wizard, joyously arm-in-arm- spouting a fountain of the clearest blue water from the tip of both of their wands. Curiously, there was no magical creatures present. James had been sure he remembered centaurs, at least, from when he'd visited as a child.

Inside a tiny cubicle just off the main thoroughfare, a stuffy old wizard wearing two monocles and a garish pink bowler hat wheezed and grunted his way through a series of forms and documents that he had James sign. Then he grabbed James by the collar and dragged him back out towards the Atrium, and up to one of the Floo Fireplaces that lined the hallway. Unlike the others, which flared bright green on regular intervals, revealing Witches and Wizards hurrying off to their day's work, this one stood cold and empty. It was lined with dark, grey tiles and bore the Hogwarts school crest atop the mantle. A thin coating of ash stirred in the grate, and a grimy handprint was smeared upon the hearth, as if someone had just finished crawling out of it.

'Hogwarts, inbound,' wheezed the wizard. And shoved James over the threshold.

Without so much as a farewell to his father, James felt the flames _whoosh_ up around him, bathing him in a cool, breezy feeling that felt rather uncomfortably like standing naked outdoors on a windy day. When his vision cleared, and he finally managed to empty his lungs of the hearty mouthful of soot he'd inhaled, he found himself stumbling across the carpet in a cramped, square room barely a few metres across in either direction.

'James Potter,' sounded a familiar voice. 'Welcome back to Hogwarts.'

James turned, and before he could stop himself, he wrapped Professor Longbottom up in a giant hug. It was just _so good_ to be back. He smiled to himself as he stepped back, brushing the last flecks of ash off of his robe, he'd _finally_ found a reason to give Professor Longbottom _love,_ like his mother always told him.

'Where are we?' James asked, looking around the small room. There were no furnishings, only a sturdy door and a grimy window with a view looking down a winding path towards Hogsmeade Village.

'Gatehouse,' Professor Longbottom explained, leading James towards the door, and shoving it open. It seemed to take a bit of effort. 'It's just outside the wards, so the Professors can Floo in and out without having to make the hike down to Hogsmeade every time. Renshaw set it up when she arrived.'

'I thought you would just have a special Floo fireplace in the staff room, or something, for that.'

Professor Longbottom shook his head as he opened a smaller side-gate and ushered James through ahead. 'Things changed when Hogwarts was rebuilt. Any weakness like that, _any_ possible way to get in or out undetected was shored up. This was the best compromise we could manage. McGonagall had everyone sleeping at the school full-time.'

'Huh,' James replied, staring back at the bland little building. He must have walked past it dozens of times on his trips to Hogsmeade, but never noticed it. With it's low, squat roof, thick wooden door and rusty lock, it hardly looked like anything worth investigating.

But his eyes didn't linger for long, as the top of the castle was becoming visible over the hills before him. Ragged battlements marched between buttressed towers. Wide, sweeping rooftops spiralled down from severe peaks. A few lights still showed in the windows, as the sun was only now beginning to truly rise. A faint dusting of snow clung here and there to the tiles and glowed with a burnished golden light as the first rays peeked over the mountains to the east.

'It's beautiful,' James whispered.

'They say absence does make the heart grow fonder.'

'I never knew how much I'd missed it.'

'Wish you showed this much enthusiasm in my classes from time to time,' Professor Longbottom shot with a sly smile.

'Hey, that's not fair. I haven't made anything explode, or bludgeoned anyone with vegetation for, what, like… most of a term, now.'

'That's because you've been suspended, for most of it.'

'Four weeks,' James breathed. 'It felt like four months.'

'I think your friends would agree.'

James nodded as they started up the hilliest part of the climb. His stupid trunk scratched and dragged along the gravel path. He couldn't wait to get his wand back.

'Why are you here to get me?' James asked, puffing slightly from exertion. 'I half expected another lecture or six from Calantha Merriweather, or Alabaster Shelby before I was allowed back in the door.'

'Believe me, James, they'll come. I'm here because the Ministry officials' idea of your return was akin to a shame parade through the Great Hall showing you off as what happens when one goes against their ideals. I had to argue _quite_ forcibly to make them renege. I'm sure that they'll find a way to get the last word in somehow down the track.'

'You shouldn't have to listen to _them._ '

'But I _do_ have to. That's just how it is, James. Trying to fight it will only make things worse for me, for you, and for others. You need to learn to pick your battles, James. This one isn't ours to fight, just yet.'

'But Caspar-'

'No, James, I'll not hear it. While I disagree with the severity of your punishment, what you did was nevertheless a terrible thing. And is _never_ justified.'

'The epazote-'

' _No,_ James. Listen. I don't care what you were taking. Take responsibility for your actions. Understanding that you were wrong, and subsequently striving to do better is the first step to becoming a man. You need to start acting like one.'

'Yes, professor,' James mumbled, a little of the wind gone from his sails. He didn't like the way the Professor was talking, like he'd given up to the Ministry already.

'That brings me to the main reason I'm here. In official capacity as your head of House, I am in charge of your discipline.'

'Oh. Right.' James liked the sound of this even less. 'Please, _please_ don't make me do any more detentions with Professor Meadows.'

Professor Longbottom smiled at that. He was looking out away from the castle, over the Black Lake. The surface of the water rippled and quivered beneath a gentle breeze. A few bubbles rose to the surface far out, near the centre.

'The Ministry officials have taken seventy-five points from Gryffindor for your outburst.'

James winced. 'Where does that place us?'

'Comfortably last.'

He'd weather a bit of ire from his housemates for that one. Gryffindor hadn't won the House Cup in a long time. They'd been in a close second, before his final Quidditch match with Slytherin.

But if that was the worst of it, James was of the opinion he'd gotten away rather lightly.

'There is one more thing.'

Or not.

'You're to undertake what Mistress Merriweather calls Anger Reduction Self Easement.'

'Really.'

'Yes. But, thankfully, they have no idea what that means.'

'Really?'

'It's a show, more than anything. They want to make an example of you, embarrass you, treat you like a child. As your head of house, they have put me in charge of the lessons.'

'And what will they entail?'

'Teaching you to become an adult.'

'How does that even _work?'_

'Oh, I've a few lessons in mind. I've enlisted a little help. You might not like this too much…'

'Not Professor Meadows…'

'Think of it as repayment of your debt. That one, last detention you owed me. We can put everything behind us. Water under the bridge.'

That _would_ be good. They arrived at the long, low bridge that led to a courtyard, and then up the steps to the Entrance Hall. James could hear the sounds of life drifting out of the castle already. Laughter, shouts of joy, running feet pelting down a distant corridor and fading into nothing. He smiled again.

'Fine. But if she so much as _thinks_ about mentioning Holly Brooks…'

'You two really don't get along anymore, do you?'

'Honestly, sir, I just don't have the energy for it anymore. I wanted to make it right for the longest time. But now… now it just seems like she wants to carry on the animosity. I think I've had enough, now. It- it was my fault in the first place. The best I can do is make sure I don't make the same mistake again in the future.'

'That's all we can ever try to achieve,' Professor Longbottom said with a smile. He raised a hand and gave James a squeeze on the shoulder. James had stopped walking. They had arrived at the steps to the Entrance Hall.

Inside, voices rang out, clashing with the clatter and clang of cutlery to be heard among the roar of a thousand-odd students breaking their fast together. Professor Longbottom signalled for James to hand off his trunk.

'Go on, James. I'll take care of this. I'm sure there's a few eager faces in there that'll be pleasantly surprised to see you.'

James didn't need telling twice. He bolted up the steps and through the wide, open doors. His trainers hammered on the flagstones as he dashed into the Great Hall. His robe was a streamer of black and red-gold, trailing out behind him as he ran.

He made it well into the Great Hall before the whispers rose up around him. He could sense from his periphery the dropped cutlery, the frozen expressions. The sudden death of conversation, and the rustling birth of a wave of whispers that bore him forth, up the table to where he'd seen a very familiar crop of red hair behind a veritable mountain of waffles.

'James _Potter?'_

But that voice. _That_ voice. It stopped him in his tracks. Like a physical rope tossed around his waist, his dash halted instantly. Jarringly. By now, a hush had fallen over the entire room. He saw his friends rise at the sound of his name, shock and joy writ all across their faces. But they held back.

Because none was brave enough to get in between Odette Mansfield and whatever – or _whomever_ – she wanted. And she was marching up the row of tables directly towards where James stood.

James could hear the sudden flurry of speculative mumbling and whispers. People paused, mid-meal. Spoons halfway to their mouths, eyes fixated on the centre of the room. He opened his mouth to speak. To say _what,_ exactly? He'd not prepared for this moment at all. He didn't know if he ought to be angry or apologetic, or what Odette could possibly even still want with him.

 _Be a man,_ Professor Longbottom's words rang in his mind. He could own this mistake, if she'd let him speak. He'd tell her-

She leapt into his arms and cut off any thought of speaking by pressing her lips firmly – _hungrily_ – up against his own. She melted into him, forcing her body up against his own. James could feel it, _all_ of it,as he wrapped his arms around her on instinct alone.

A few giggles rose up around the room, nervous or scandalised, James didn't care. He closed his eyes just as movement erupted up at the staff table. Not his problem. Not yet, at least. His brain was too fixated on trying to rally a reasonable counter-attack to the assault he was currently under from Odette's tongue. To work out just what to do with his hands, as hers roamed his body freely, somehow finding a way up under his robes. To rein himself in from tossing aside the platters from the table nearby and doing something with Odette that would have almost _certainly_ gotten himself suspended all over again, as his body made up for the weeks apart, and his mind fuelled his efforts with the wash of nervous energy that bathed him the moment she leaped into his arms.

'You ought to have told me you were returning,' Odette sighed, finally pulling away. Her breath was short and her cheeks were bright red. Rarely had James seen her so flustered. 'I would have worn something more… _less.'_

It would appear that his absence hadn't changed her in the slightest.

'And miss my shot at a welcome like this? Not bloody likely.' James' smile faltered. 'Odette, I'm-'

'Don't say it.' She pressed a finger to his lips. 'Don't apologize James. It's a sentiment for lost boys. Show me that you're more than that. Show me you're a man.'

'Still, I-'

She grabbed his hand and tugged him towards the door. 'Come, you can make it up to me in an abandoned classroom. I think we've already given old Professor Budd a heart attack up there. Which is good, because I didn't finish my Charms essay due today.'

And with that, James was gone, pulled from the room, picked up by the whirlwind of passion and emotion that was Odette Mansfield, leaving in his wake five vexed-looking individuals gathered around a mountain of waffles near the top of the Gryffindor table.

The smile still hadn't left James' face that evening, as he sat down for dinner next to Fred, and across the table from Tristan and Clip. They were sitting at the Hufflepuff table today, there had been a few frosty words exchanged by the other Gryffindors after James' morning "display" had caused him to lose a further twenty house points.

'So,' Tristan said, flopping down into his seat. 'Did you?'

James, a pre-dinner chocolate éclair halfway to his mouth, paused. 'Did I what?'

'You know. With Odette.' Tristan wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

'What-? No!'

' _Have_ you?' Fred asked, sliding in next to James, and following suit by helping himself to two treacle tarts and dipping them in gravy.

' _No!_ '

' _Will_ you?' Clip Wallace joined the group, sitting down next to Tristan, wearing two Gryffindor jumpers and a massively smug smile.

'No! Maybe! I don't- How long have you three been practising that?'

'All afternoon,' Tristan admitted.

'We all got detention from Professor Ellfrick for looking at her "like a lonely man does his sock drawer" I believe were her exact words.'

'Half a day,' James grinned. 'That's all it has taken for you three to leave me utterly disgusted and appalled.'

'Take this,' Tristan winked, tossing a familiar book across the table to James. 'Think you're going to be needing it real soon.'

It fell open of its own accord, as if it were frequently opened to a particular page. It bore a title reading _"When is an exit not an exit?"_

'Er, never mind that,' Tristan stammered, flicking the book closed hastily. 'Let's crawl before we can sprint, yea?'

James had no time to do either and had to hastily stuff the book into his bag as one very tall and one very short beaming smile was coming his way.

'James!' Cat squealed, launching herself at him and wrapping her arms around him in a hug that was a little more appropriate for their surroundings than Odette's earlier display. 'I missed you, I missed you, I missed you! I _knew_ you'd come back. Today was _golden!_ '

James extricated himself from Cat and her long curtain of silvery-blonde hair. She was still beaming down at him, as if she'd just won the Quidditch Cup all by herself.

Cassie, however, was a little more reserved, and offered James a smile, a tight nod, and an extended hand to shake. James batted it aside and lifted her clean up off the floor, spinning her around one whole time, before placing her back on her feet. Her eyes were unfocused, her smile had disappeared, and she had taken on a slightly greenish tinge.

'I don't like spinning,' she whimpered.

'It's good to see you too, Cassie,' James smiled.

'Reckon I should get suspended more often,' Tristan smirked, sliding aside to make room for Cat. 'All James has done today is hug girls. Anyone else about the school need a good hiding?'

Fred laughed outright. Clip showed enough tact to smile subtly into his goblet. Cassie leaned over and aimed a smack at Tristan but missed, as she was still disoriented. Cat quietly levitated his last Yorkshire pudding and dropped it into his pumpkin juice, before sticking out her tongue. It didn't stop Tristan from drinking it anyway.

Merlin, but James had missed the lot of them. It wasn't like the castle, which he'd been surprised to find had brought him such joy. These five he'd _known_ he'd been aching to see. Their smiles and laughter. Cassie, rolling her eyes at the silliness. Cat, distracted by something shiny that she was probably about to – yep – try and eat. The way Tristan made eyes at the girls up and down the Hufflepuff table when he thought nobody was looking. Or how Clip made eyes at Cassie even when _she_ was looking. And that sly, calculating look that Fred always wore, his eyes darting about the room, figuring out just how much of it he might be able to blow up at any one time and manage to get away with.

Subconsciously, James' own eyes drifted over to the Slytherin table. Past the empty spot where Odette would normally sit, and onwards, to find a pair of pale grey eyes that flickered away the moment his gaze made contact.

An unbidden flicker of annoyance arced up within him. He pushed it down. She was _adamant_ on drawing this out, this… whatever their strained, pained relationship was these days. _Put it away._ His eyes moved onwards, and he didn't look that way again.

'So,' Fred whispered in James' ear. 'When are we going to get our revenge?'

James had guessed this was coming. He'd given it a fair bit of thought, in the weeks locked in his room confined to staring at the ceiling for entertainment. He'd crafted some wicked and terrifying plans in the small hours of the mornings when his mind kept him awake by worrying about if he'd ever see Hogwarts again.

'We're not,' was James' firm response. 'Let it go.'

 _This isn't our fight._ Not yet, at least.

Fred's mouth was agape. 'But I got extra _stuff._ Like, _loads_ extra. I can't just leave it sitting there.'

'Send it back,' James shrugged. 'None of us can do any good if we manage to get ourselves expelled.'

'But Caspar-'

'Can't do anything if we don't allow him to goad us into it. That's how all of this started. I'm not going to make that mistake again.'

James signalled their conversation was at an end, as he felt eyes on them from the staff table. Calantha Merriweather was studying him over the rim of her goblet. James flashed her a sickly smile and returned to his meal, before she could make up any transgression to justify docking more house points from him. He ate the rest of his meal in relative silence.

Over his first few days back at school, James was relatively quick to find a routine. He was also quick to discover that he had missed a _lot_ in his few weeks off. _'Just be glad this isn't your OWL year'_ Cassie reminded him no fewer than eight times before the midway point of the week had even passed. He had Summoning and Banishing Charms to perfect for Professor Budd, liquid to solid Transfigurations for Professor Plye, and the _Protego_ shield charm for Professor Meadows. He read and researched and studied and wrote until his eyes were square and his mind was mush and he had to get Clip to read the homework to him, else he thought his brain might _actually_ just slide right on out one of his ears.

The rewards came towards the end of the week, however, when he managed an 'Outstanding' grade in his Defence essay and scraped through three 'Exceeds Expectations' results in Charms, Transfiguration and Potions assignments. He felt pretty bloody chuffed about the entire affair, and for once, could actually sort of maybe see where Cassie got off on studying so much.

'Isn't it _brilliant,'_ Cassie breathed, ink stains all over her face, a second quill tucked behind one ear, no fewer than _three_ rolled-up scrolls stuffed down the front of her shirt, and surrounded by a mountain of books, most of which were thicker than James' leg.

Well, almost.

She'd gathered him into a far corner of the library, at an hour so late as to be pushing curfew, ostensibly to help him catch up on even more of his missed studies. She'd had to prod him awake four times already, and the lines of one of her essays were smudged into James' cheek where he'd fell asleep and started drooling on it. But James knew why they were _really_ here. And, like her, he was simply waiting until enough of the other late-night studiers made off to give them the privacy to talk freely.

He'd told all of his friends about Rain, of course, the moment he had had a chance. Well, at least he told them what his father and Uncle Ron suspected about her. They had agreed that it looked bad for her, but that there was far too little information, and most of it speculative at best, to be forming any opinions as to the exact quantity of her evilness just yet.

But Cassie had not accepted that. She had been the only one to _do_ something, as James knew she would. She wanted to prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, to everyone – and maybe perhaps to herself as well – that her best friend was innocent.

'We'll do it again tonight,' she told him, when the coast was clear.

'Where?'

'In an unused classroom on the third floor. West wing.'

'I'm ready.'

'Soon. I need to prepare. I've been reading. I've found a new way to do it.'

James nodded.

'We'll both need to wear…' here, she mimed looping the Locket over her head.

'Sounds cosy.'

'Make sure not to choke me.'

'… I'll take that under advisement.'

'And we'll need some pillows, in case we fall down. I don't like the rough-and-tumble.'

'Are you sure we're talking about the same thing here?'

Cassie rolled her eyes, and jabbed him with the end of her quill. Her eyes darted to the door behind her. 'Come quickly.'

It was James' turn to roll his eyes. It was almost like she did it on purpose.

They padded through the darkened corridors together. Not _technically_ doing anything wrong, although heading in the complete opposite direction to both of their dormitories five minutes before curfew would be a bit of a giveaway if they did run in to any of the faculty.

Thankfully, nobody showed to oppose them. Dark corridors were empty. A light rain pattered against the windows, muffling the sounds of their footfalls. As curfew came and went, the torches in sconces that lined the halls flickered and faded, only one in three staying lit, their light a feeble thing compared to what it was – barely enough to see by. That suited them both just fine.

The room they had chosen was small, unremarkable, and filled with broken desks, chairs that rattled and stirred randomly of their own volition, and even an armchair that limped haphazardly across the room in a crazed pattern, occasionally getting trapped and bumping repeatedly into walls before James took pity on it and turned it around once more.

'You think they'll get in the way?' James asked, eyeing two desk chairs which were either trying to fight or mate with one another in the far corner.

' _Immobulus!'_ Cassie cried, and the furniture around the room stilled. A bubble of calm surrounded the two of them.

'Nice one.'

Cassie smiled, before choosing out one of the least active chairs to sit on, and fishing around in her bag for the big, dusty book she'd purchased from Hogsmeade the previous term.

James watched her as her eyes flicked across pages. Her lips moved subtly as she skimmed through the text. Occasionally her brow would crinkle, and she'd chew on the end of one thumbnail when she found something that was a little tougher to digest. Finally, she closed the book with a sharp _crack_ that startled James where he'd resorted to staring out the window across at the Northern Tower.

'Locket,' Cassie whispered, holding out her hand.

James obliged, looping the chain up over his head. When it got stuck, he unbuttoned a few extra buttons on his shirt to manoeuvre it free.

He looked up at Cassie's hissed intake of breath, and found her eyes staring at the stretch of skin revealed when he removed the locket.

'Does it hurt?' she whispered softly.

James shrugged. He didn't really feel it, most of the time. He barely even thought about it, when the Locket was on. Now that he'd removed it, though, he began to feel a kind of itch. An uncomfortable sensation that he'd almost describe as longing. Like he'd taken away the other half of a whole. It was centred on his chest, right in the middle of his scar.

'May I?' Cassie asked, drawing her wand and levelling it at James' chest.

'Err…'

' _Sensus Corporum.'_ A strange, chilly felling washed over James from Cassie's spell. Like a trickle of water was running down his spine. He shivered, and Cassie quickly broke off the spell.

'It feels kind of… hot,' Cassie breathed, biting down on her thumbnail as she frowned at James' chest.

'Makes sense, it burned like hell when I got it.'

'But also… hungry?'

'That's the Locket, I think. Or left over from it. Ever since we went to the Flamel's, it's felt _odd._ Sort of like I can feel emotion through it. Like it really wants something. I promise I'm not going crazy.'

'No, I believe you. I just have no idea what it could be.'

'Join the club. Maybe this – finding Rain – will help.'

Cassie nodded, and gestured that he should loop the locket over both of their heads. She was going to try a different approach tonight, as her previous effort had been exhausting, time-consuming, and only worked when James broke the spell and grabbed the Locket.

It was a bit of a squeeze, with Cassie's face ending up slightly smushed into James' chest, and James' arms flapping around out to the side as they tried to manoeuvre into a more comfortable position. Eventually, Cassie directed her wand at the Locket – only jabbing James in the eye once as she did so – and uttered a spell that James had never heard before. He got a brief sensation of overwhelming joy as the room disappeared around them with a laughing child's _weeee!_

They were on a boat. A small dinghy rocked and bobbed on the waves of an unknown ocean. James couldn't see land in any direction. Although there were no sails, nor any oars, he was certain that the boat was moving. Though it pitched and rolled with the swell, their footing never wavered, and he and Cassie stood firm towards the stern, peering out at the horizon, over which a gathering storm painted the sky dark, and veils of slate-grey rain blended in with the sea below.

'Oh, James,' Cassie moaned.

He lowered his head to see a figure sitting in the stern, his hands and legs restrained by glowing, purple magical bonds. His weathered features were frail, and his eyes were wild. Wispy strands of grey hair were tugged and snared by the wind that blustered through, though the breeze didn't touch the loose collar of James' shirt.

Sitting immediately in front, her back to them, was a curtain of red-gold hair that James would recognise anywhere: Rain.

'What are you doing, you crazy child?' spluttered the man. 'Where are your parents?'

'Gone, I hope.'

James' heart stuttered in his chest. There was something wrong here, something he wasn't quite grasping.

'James,' Cassie whispered, her voice trembling. 'That man. I- I recognise him from his books. That- that's Dorian Alder.'

'Oh, _shit._ '

'Why are you doing this? Is it money, you want? All my Galleons I donate to St Mungo's.'

'Nothing so banal.'

'Then _why?_ I've never hurt anyone. _Anyone!_ My life's work has been researching cures. Breaking curses. I _help_ people!'

'Exactly.'

A school of fish seemed to boil the surface of the ocean off to their left. James noticed his chest was wet, and looked down to see Cassie crying into it. He placed an arm around her, and she turned away from the scene. James, however looked on. He had to. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. There had to be something he was missing, there just _had_ to.

'People will know I'm missing!' Alder practically screeched. 'You'll never get away with this.'

'You talk too much.'

With a flick of her wrist, Rain froze Alder's jaw shut. Literally _froze_ it. Sheets of ice encased the lower half of his face, icicles hanging down off his chin. Rapid breaths from his nose caused curling tendrils of mist to form before him that were snatched away by the wind.

'Don't do it, Rain.' Cassie was whimpering into James' chest. 'Please, don't do it.'

James locked his jaw and widened his stance. He set his eyes forward and forced himself to witness. They travelled for a few more minutes in silence. The only sound was the waves slapping against the wooden hull of the boat.

It wasn't immediately evident when they stopped moving, especially without the wind able to brush against his face in this shadow of a memory, but something in Alder's eyes gave it away first. He looked around wildly. Rain finally allowed his frozen gag to melt, and it immediately set him to wailing.

'Please!' he cried. 'I'll do anything. Whatever you want!'

'I want you to be gone.'

'I'll go! I'll leave. I'll disappear to Australia, or Thaliand, or somewhere you've never even heard of! I'll live in a hut in the woods, just let me go!'

'No. My way is better.'

' _Please!_ You have to- wait. We're sinking!'

James looked down and saw the water of the ocean creeping up the sides of the boat and beginning to pool in the bottom of their little dinghy. It swirled and lapped at Rain and Alder's feet. Though it pooled up and around James' own ankles, he felt his shoes still dry. The little eddies and currents seemed to ignore them entirely.

'I think you'll find that _you_ are sinking,' Rain said. James could hear the smirk in her voice.

'Please, James,' Cassie begged against his chest. 'End it. I can't- no more.'

James watched as the water continued to rise, though Rain remained unfazed and unaffected. As it reached the base of her seat, he saw it begin to play with the fabric of her trousers, but she herself remained unmoving, sitting instead on the _surface_ of the water. While the boat – still bearing Alder – continued to sink around her.

For a moment James panicked – would they _sink?_ But the pair of them stayed on a level with Rain. This was her memory. They were anchored to her in this fragment of a realm.

Alder tried to kick free and swim away, but the water started flowing up his body, encasing his torso, then eventually his magically-bound arms, and finally over his head and face. He was trapped in a sphere of water, slowly sinking and melting into the sea while Rain bobbed on the surface of the waves, watching it all, completely unaffected.

Cassie's tears were flowing freely now. She stopped hugging James as Alder's face began to turn a sickly grey colour, and threw the chain of the Locket off from around her neck. She instantly winked out of existence. James thought to follow – this was a chilling sight, seeing Alder die, Rain watch, and all of his protestations and surety about her innocence evaporate before him. But something, some sense of duty, made him stay to the end.

It didn't take long. Alder's struggles eventually ceased. The boat, along with his body disappeared down beneath the waves, and Rain eventually stood up and turned back to the shore – bringing her face to face with James for the first time. Was there something _else_ behind those sea-green eyes, lurking there, or was it his imagination, trying to conjure up some frail hope, some reason to believe the Rain that _he_ knew wasn't capable of an atrocity such as this.

He found no further answers in her gaze, and turned to watch as she made the journey back towards land, walking confidently across the surface of the water and not once looking back to the place where she'd just murdered a man in cold blood.

Back in the unused classroom James surfaced as if he'd just taken a dunk in a cold bath. He gasped for breath, clutching at his throat and doubling over, sucking in great lungfuls of air as if it had been _he_ who had done the drowning. Against his chest, he felt the Locket exuding a sensation that was almost… pleased with itself? Like a dog who had just fetched his favourite stick for his master.

Over in the corner of the room, Cassie was curled up in a ball, crying.

James hurried over to her, picking her up and wrapping his arms around her as she shook with silent tears, resting his chin against the top of her head and trying to push down the sense of hopelessness that threatened to overwhelm him, as well.

'D-did she?' Cassie tentatively asked.

'Yes.'

She let out a sob that shook her whole body.

'We can't give up yet Cassie.'

'James you _saw_ what she did! She murdered someone! And not just _anyone,_ Dorian Alder! Th-that was right before the Infection broke out last year. I read it in the papers.'

James had no answer to that. Had his father been right all along? Rain's presence at – and involvement in – all of these events were building a hex-proof case against her.

'That wasn't her, Cassie. It can't have been. I- I'm sure of it.'

'James, please. You can't fool yourself.'

'The Rain I knew laughed so hard she fell off her chair when I farted while trying to dodge a Stunner in Defence one time. She fed water to that baby Kneazle that Cat found in second year and I saw her _cry_ when she had to let it go. She spent six hours one night teaching Clip the shoelace-tying Charm last year and then fell asleep during the lesson and got a 'T' grade herself. _That_ Rain wouldn't – _couldn't_ – do something like that.'

'But what if it was all just a lie, James? Which one is the _real_ Rain? Is either?' Cassie had stopped crying now, and she freed herself to go and sit down on a chair. She wouldn't meet James' gaze. Her cheeks were red and her short hair a mess as she stared fixedly out the window.

'If we stop believing, Cassie, then there is nobody left. She's gone, for good.'

'Maybe- maybe that's not such a bad thing.' The tears consumed her again, and James laid a hand on Cassie's back and chewed on his lower lip in thought.

'No, Cassie. Because if there is a chance – even the slightest chance – that _our_ Rain is trapped in there with that monster, then we have to fight to find her. We have to, Cassie. Nobody else believes in her.'

'But James, I'm scared. I- I don't know if I do anymore, either'

'Believe in _me_ , Cassie, if not her.'

'Blind faith isn't a very Ravenclaw trait, James Potter.'

'We both know how much you hate throwing out house stereotypes, Cassie.'

She gave a small hiccup that was almost half a laugh. 'Well it's not a very Cassandra Featherstone trait, then.'

'And what about trusting your friends? Whose trait is that?'

Cassie looked up at him for the first time, and the moment hung there, poised on a knife-edge while she considered. Finally, she reached out and took James' proffered hand, and he pulled her to her feet. She allowed him to lead her out of the room together, and off up to the Ravenclaw tower before he himself went to bed.

The decision weighed heavily upon him, as he found himself pacing the corridors alone. Had he just agreed to try and rescue a monster? Would it be _him_ that was responsible if they saved her, and she attacked again? Had the Desecrator spirited her away to cook up their next grand plan together, or was she merely an unwilling accomplice in these heinous crimes?

So many questions stood in the way of James knowing what was right. He had only his gut to trust, and that told him to never give up on a friend. It was all he had to go by, even in the face of nearly overwhelming evidence. He set his jaw and nodded to himself as he approached the Gryffindor common room. He was going to do it, though. He'd find Rain, wherever she was, and get to the bottom of all of it.

Upon his chest, beneath his shirt, the Locket felt warm, and radiated a sort of happiness at James' decision.


	27. Flap

The clatter and clang of a thousand students at breakfast bustled and hurried throughout the Great Hall of Hogwarts. The sound rose and fell, in inexplicable waves tied to some deep undercurrent unobservable on the surface. It fed off itself, growing to sudden, unexpected crescendos before ebbing away, left lapping gently at the edges of the void that followed.

James allowed its tidal nature to wash over him as he slowly made his way through his morning meal, more playing with his food than an actual spirited effort at eating it. He chased a rasher of bacon around his plate with a fork, and idly drummed his nails along the tabletop beside him. They were seated at the Ravenclaw table today, and Cassie had found them a place as far from the staff table as possible – and from any other would-be troublemakers from her own house.

James cast a gaze up towards the scattering of professors who were present to oversee the morning fare. Professors Longbottom and Meadows had their heads bent together in quiet discussion. Professor Ellfrick surveyed the students with her regular, cool regard, and Professor Plye was unashamedly chatting up Calantha Merriweather, seated near the centre of the table flanking the Headmistress' seat.

They bracketed the regular staff, did the Minstry outsiders. Merriweather and Shelby in the middle, either side of the regal chair that ought to have been occupied by Headmistress Renshaw. The statement there was a clear one. And then, in the farthest seats right on the edge of the table, sat the elderly witch and wizard – whose names James still did not know. They watched on in silence – as they ever did – and the students were quick to flick their tentative gazes away should they accidently meet the chilling regard of those silent watchers.

In their odd cloaks with stiff collars and shiny buttons, they stood out clearly among the more austere robes and gowns of the regular staff. Was there a statement in that, as well? James couldn't work it out.

He turned back to his plate to find it empty, the end of his bacon hanging out from Fred's mouth. A cheeky glimmer winked behind Fred's eyes that James couldn't bring himself to reciprocate. He gave only a tight smile in return.

He was actively avoiding Cassie's gaze this morning, and she, his. For good reason, too. Though she sat directly across from him, their eyes rarely were in danger of linking. Neither of them could bear to bring up what had happened the night past. To share a look – any look – would be to rip off the bandage anew; to drag nails across an open wound that neither of them had found method to healing just yet. She looked so small, and lost. Cassie never looked lost. She was always sure of herself, decisive and firm in her perfect rule-abiding way. Instinctively, James wanted to take her hand, but thought better of it and confined himself to distracting conversation over who was favoured in this weeks Quidditch match with Fred instead.

'… yes, but Ravenclaw hasn't won a game all season,' Fred was quick – and loud – to point out. 'Even _with_ you missing four weeks of practice, we're still a shoe-in, I bet.'

James made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat and nodded off-handedly.

'What's got your kneazle?' Tristan shot, eyeing James and Cassie uncertainly. 'The pair of you look like you're fresh from a night in that broom closet – you know the one with the false back – doing a whole host of things you all of a sudden regret.'

Clip – silent up until this point – started choking on the mouthful of pumpkin juice he had been midway through swallowing. Cassie flushed a bright red and looked down at the floor.

'Bad study session,' James lied. Well, perhaps not so much _lied_ as grossly understated.

'Been there,' Tristan mumbled with a sly wink in Cassie's direction. 'She get you to write out the twelve uses for Dragon's blood again? Then in alphabetical order? Then make you write an essay on _four_ of them, even though we were only assigned an essay for _one,_ because she was adamant that "at least half wouldn't be good enough, and it's a good learning experience anyway"?'

'That's… oddly specific.'

Tristan just shrugged. 'Second year was a tough year.'

'Because you insisted on spending every waking moment trying to set my books on fire rather than study then,' Cassie piped up with a hint of a smile.

James relaxed back in his seat, and actually took a swig of his morning Pumpkin juice. _Well done, Tristan._ James saw a little of the knots release from Cassie's shoulders as she was drawn into a friendly argument as to the correct use of a mountain of highly flammable study texts.

They were interrupted – as were most conversations throughout the hall – by a quiet ringing sound. There was a lull in conversations throughout the room – a breath held between waves – as many students glanced around to try and locate its source. When nothing followed, the conversation resumed. But managed only a few tentative breaths before the noise returned – this time magically amplified to become a thunderous wave of ear-splitting peals that cut through the life in the hall like a blade.

'Mmm, thank you,' Calantha Merriweather drawled, holding her knife next to a crystalline goblet, and looking rather pleased with herself. 'I require your attention _mmm_ omentarily, so that we may make an announcement.'

A flourishing bout of curious whispers was executed coldly by Alabaster Shelby slapping his palm loudly onto the tabletop before him. 'Discipline!' he barked.

'Thank you, _mmm_ ister Shelby. Now the Ministry – _your_ Ministry – has decided, that as your wayward Headmistress is unlikely to return, that a replacement should be found, as i _mmmm_ ediately as possible.'

'This can't be good,' whispered Fred. James was inclined to agree.

'As such, an i _nnn_ itial search will take place right here, among the current faculty.'

At this, she was forced to break off as the _professors_ were the ones to burst out in a sudden flurry of whispers and nervous shifting. Had even they not been informed?

Eventually, under Shelby's withering gaze, the teachers quietened down, and Merriweather continued.

'To facilitate this, we will be conducting a series of… performance examinatio _nnn_ s over the coming weeks, to ascertain if any of the current faculty possess the aptitude for such a role.'

'My dad told me about this,' Fred hissed. 'From the last time the Ministry was here. It's all scribbling notepads and pointed questions.'

'Until you feed one of them to the centaurs?' Tristan asked with a smile.

'Here's hoping.'

It seemed that the professors were none too pleased by these developments either. Professor Meadows was busily making rude gestures at Calantha Merriweather's back when she wasn't looking. Professor Longbottom was staring out over the students, but not seeming to see any of them.

'And fi _nnn_ ally,' Calantha Merriweather purred again. 'These examinations start today.'

It was a good thing that was her final point, as the room erupted into a sudden fit of noise – from teachers and students both.

James slipped out in the furore, and the rest of the group followed. Even out in the Entrance Hall, the sound of angry voices could still be heard permeating the castle. He checked his watch – nobody seemed to have realised that classes were due to start any minute now.

The group split up at the base of the stairs – Clip and Cassie to ascend to Arithmancy, while James, Fred, Tristan and Cat were to make their way down across the grounds to what promised to be a frosty Care of Magical Creatures lesson. Before they parted, James pulled Cassie aside beneath the stair, in the shadow of a hulking torch stand that provided them light as well as warmth.

'You ok?' he asked, feeling a little silly.

'I'll survive,' she said, giving him a clearly forced smile. 'Still trying to reconcile this working on blind trust, and going against all the weight of overwhelming evidence that has appeared before me. The Ravenclaw part of me is finding that hard to deal with'

'You can't just be a logic-driven square _all_ the time, can you?'

'I'll have you know that we do, in fact, have hearts.'

'Tell that to Tristan and his four essays,' James smirked.

Cassie smiled again – just a small one – but it was enough for James. With a cheeky smile on his face, he held out his hand with an overly formal look upon his face. Cassie rolled her eyes and gave a long-suffering sigh as she took it and gave it a squeeze.

'Stay strong out there, Cassie.'

'Don't punch any Ravenclaw's heads off, James.'

They parted, and James joined the rest of the group heading down the steps and across the courtyard, drenched in morning sunlight that bore little in the way of real warmth. The last few days of February weren't shaping up to be comfortable ones.

'What have you got there?' James asked, as the group had stalled on the lowermost step, crowding around what appeared to be a piece of trash.

'Litterbugs,' Cat scowled, holding up a crinkled page from the _Daily Prophet_. It bore the date of the day prior.

'We're stopping her from marching back into the Great Hall and asking every single student if they were the ones who dropped it,' Tristan explained.

'Personally, I'm on the fence,' Clip offered. 'It _is_ a lot warmer back in there…'

His breath was misting before him, as if to attest to the very fact.

James snagged the crumpled sheaf of parchment, his eyes snagged by an interesting looking image on the front page. It was of an austere-looking castle, with severe, high walls and pointed battlements being rocked by what seemed like a concussive blast.

 _Mysterious Explosion at Durmstrang – Attack, or Accident? Just how dangerous are our Baltic Neighbours?_

The title alone was enough to pique James' interest – though the article itself was missing, the entire page dominated by the image alone.

'Merlin, I hope Pot-Heat and his band of crazies are ok,' he breathed, frowning at the picture as the blast seemed to rock the school to its very foundations again and again as it played out before him. 'I never did figure out his name.'

All eyes turned to Cat, who had picked a large daisy and was affixing it into her hair.

'What?' she asked. 'Well I'm not just going to _tell_ you, am I? You've got to _earn_ it.'

They all three gave a collective eye-roll that would make Cassie proud, before carrying on out down the grounds, their path mercifully free of any more litter requiring Cat's immediate attention.

The rest of their classmates weren't far behind them, and Hagrid was the last of them all to arrive, marching in through the milling, chattering group and clapping his gigantic hands in a way that winked out the conversations effectively as the Ministry officials had earlier at breakfast.

'Mornin, folks!' he called, oddly cheery despite the foreboding announcements not half an hour past. 'Got a great lesson planned for yer, today. Somethin' really special. Got 'em fer a week only. Follow me!'

And without further ado, Hagrid turned and marched purposefully down towards the Forbidden Forest. Most of the class didn't so much as budge in response.

'I'm no coward,' said Tristan. 'But _seriously?_ He knows what's in there!'

'This is fantastic, piped up Caspar Helstrom from the rear of the group, where he stood by his stalwart crony, the formidable Dannil Pyke. 'First evaluation of the term, and this oaf is going to get sacked. I, for one, am all in.'

He set off before James had even had the chance to march down in support of Hagrid. More than half of the class followed after Caspar, a few chuckles and nervous glances darted back and forth between them.

 _Just ignore it,_ James had to tell himself. _Don't let him goad you._ He looked straight ahead, heedless of the reproachful, irritated or outright disdainful glances thrown his way – many from members of his own house.

'C'mon,' he said through gritted teeth. 'Let's hurry.'

They trekked only a short way into the fringe of the Forest, to a clearing that was just beginning to see the first rays of the sun's morning light. Dappled shadows covered most of the leaf-strewn ground, and the entirety of the class huddled in the one sun-drenched corner, as if something deadly lurked in the shadows.

'Now usually, these are outlawed in Britain,' Hagrid cheerily told them, standing on the far edge of the clearing and looking a little perplexed at the way the entire class stood huddled so far away. 'Class XXXX dangerous beast. Too harsh, by my standin'! They're mostly just misunderstood. Class XXX at most – any competent wizard ought to have the handle on 'em. And you look like a competent lot! Sure, just like any beasty, it'll bite if yer stick yer finger in its mouth, but there haven't been any deaths since the potion was developed to counteract its poison.'

James couldn't help but groan, as the rest of the class shuffled nervously. Hagrid had chosen possibly the _worst_ timing… Caspar was looking like all his Christmases had come at once. His head was eagerly swivelling left and right, waiting for the Ministry official that would be examining Hagrid's lesson to appear.

'Erm Hagrid,' Cat said quietly, while the class were distracted by the potential approach of their own demise. 'Do you think that today is the _best_ day for this? Today is brown. Which is usually just _boring,_ but I would find it _incredibly_ boring if you managed to get slightly fired so…'

'Not to worry, Kattala.

'Oh, well ok then. No, wait. _Why_ not to worry?'

'I think the Ministry cohort might find themselves a touch distracted at the mo'. Somethin' about a loose Niffler in one o' their quarters. Or all o' their quarters. Just a rumour I heard.'

It was James' turn to smile at the gleam in Hagrid's beetle black eyes, and he couldn't resist turning to show a smug grin in Caspar's direction. It appeared Hagrid was getting wily in his old age.

'Hagrid,' Tristan eventually asked. 'Not to be the annoyingly pragmatic one about the whole affair, but where exactly _are_ these mildly deadly creatures you've got tucked away?'

He, like most of the rest of the class, had taken to studying the deeper pockets of darkness between the boles of the great fir and pines in an attempt to ensure nothing was lurking hidden in shadow.

'Oh, right. O' course.'

Hagrid put his fingers to lips and let loose an ear-splitting whistle that had most of the students ducking for cover. A few of the jumpier ones drew their wands, and many started shifting nervously, glancing this way and that and trying to shuffle in to the relative safety of the centre of the group.

James found himself alone, along with Fred, Cat and Tristan, out on the fringes, staring into the shade beneath a sprawling, monstrous oak where he thought he saw some suspicious shifting beneath the leaves.

'What're yer lookin' at?' Hagrid's face, suddenly appearing right next to James' own, caused him to give a very un-Gryffindor yelp of fright. Most of the class laughed louder than was strictly necessary, he thought.

'I dunno,' James mumbled. 'Something… deadly?'

'Nonsense,' Hagrid laughed, then tiled James' head up towards the sky. 'Besides, yer not like to see anythin' wallowin around down there!'

The entire class gasped as the steady sound of wingbeats could be heard over the faint rustling of the wind.

'Hippogriffs!' cried one student.

'Dragons!' cried a manic Leah Ridley.

But it was neither. James watched with curiosity as the creature appeared above the treetops. It circled the empty space above the clearing once, before descending on scaly wings to alight on a branch just above Hagrid's head height.

It seemed a creature caught halfway between being a lizard and a bird. It was about as long as Hagrid was tall, with a lithe, serpentine body covered in scales and a narrow, wedge-shaped head filled with needle-like fangs as long as James' middle finger. Great, feathered wings many times James' arm-span sprouted from its back, and a feathered ruff rippled in the breeze around its neck. Long, powerful talons gipped with surety to the branch upon which it sat, and it regarded the class almost dismissively through one of its large, golden-yellow irises.

'Beautiful, isn't he? Anybody got an idea of what he is? I call him Jeffrey.'

'Dragons!' cried Leah once more.

'Ooh, it's a Snallygaster!' Cat said, bouncing upon the balls of her feet. A few of the class snickered, but were satisfyingly shut up when Hagrid clapped his hands together in affirmation.

'Well done, Kattala, well done. Ten points to Gryffindor.'

'But… is it?' Tristan asked. 'I've seen one before. This one looks different. More… flamey?'

'A keen eye there, Mister Macmillan. Take ten points to Hufflepuff, as well. Snallygasters, such as they are, are a species native to northern North America. Their fangs are sharp enough to cut through steel, and look at this-'

Without any warning, Hagrid bent down to pick up a rock from the ground and hurled it in the Snallygaster's direction. The class gasped. Even James flinched. Leah outright wailed in terror. The rock hit with a _thunk_ into Jeffrey's chest, and he made no indication that he'd been disturbed at all, beyond a slight ruffle of his neck feathers and a turn of his beady eyes to fix on Hagrid.

'Hide as tough as dragons. Deflects bullets, and most spells, too. Can be tricky little devils to deal with when they get riled up-'

'Like when somebody throws rocks at them?' came Caspar's snide voice from the back of the group.

'As I said,' Hagrid pointedly ignored the jab. 'Tough little blighters, and native to America. Or were, at least. Until some bright spark started importing them illegally, and tryin' ter cross-breed them with anythin' under the sun. Jeffrey here has a little bit o' Phoenix in him. S'where he gets the red and gold feathers. And if you hold your hand to his throat, you'd feel it hot.'

Unsurprisingly, not a soul among them volunteered to test the validity of this claim in person.

'Problem is, a breeding pair escaped and now the south of the country's dealin' with a growin' infestation. Some folk want to kill 'em. Some folk want to protect 'em. They're a naturally curious beast, and give the Ministry in the States a right old headache trying to keep the Muggles from seein' 'em. They're starting to get a bit o' publicity over here as well, 'specially round cities and the like.

'Due to their prolific breeding, they're likely here to stay. So best you get used to dealin' with 'em. How to feed 'em, how to chase 'em away. How to catch 'em…'

James was beginning to get a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. The parallels between this creature and the thing he'd fought were apparent. Although the thing _he'd_ fought had been at least thrice as big, with a deformed humanoid face and a cry that would strike fear into the heart of even the bravest Gryffindor. He eyed "Jeffrey" warily. The Locket shivered against his chest.

'Brilliant, isn't it?'

James spun, as Hagrid continued on talking, to see Caspar and Dannil elbowing their way through the crowd to the front where James stood.

'Shove off, Caspar.' He felt Fred and Tristan slide up beside him. Tristan not-so-subtly was polishing a spot of dirt off of his wand, holding it loosely in Caspar's direction.

'Watch your mouth, Potter,' Dannil leered. He towered over all of them except Cat, who helped by sticking her tongue out at the pair.

'That's a good one, Dannil,' Tristan goaded with a lopsided grin. 'You think it up all by yourself? I always wondered who your parents paid off to get you in to Ravenclaw. Or did your mother just-'

'Careful, Macmillan,' Caspar warned. 'You're outnumbered here.'

James opened his mouth to contradict him, but his eyes fell on the students who stood behind Caspar and Dannil. Students whose attention was no longer on the lesson, but on the hushed showdown between the five of them. They glared at James and his group with open hostility. Students from all four of the houses, even some Gryffindors were among them. _Traitors._ They made James want to spit.

Caspar's Glorious Sacrifice. The ones who wanted to punish James for what his father had done in rescuing the world from Voldemort. Sons and daughters of broken families who – in an ironic twist of logic for a Ravenclaw – laid that blame at the feet of Harry Potter.

 _Don't let him goad you._ James took a deep breath, running his hand through his hair and exhaling sharply between his teeth.

'Go back to hiding down the back of the class, Caspar. We're not going to start anything here.'

'Of _course,_ James Potter thinks everything revolves around him.' Caspar hissed, his tone dripping with distaste. 'But I've nothing more to say to you, Potter. Imagine, though, when this oaf asks for volunteers to pet the vile creature, and a curious Ravenclaw steps forward, only to _accidentally_ goad the creature into attacking, and showing both how dangerous _it_ is, and how incompetent the half-giant is in one fell swoop. Never mind assessment for Headmaster, he'll be looking at trial for Azkaban after letting a student get so badly hurt under his watch.'

James' eyes narrowed. 'You wouldn't…'

Caspar laughed derisively. 'Then you fail to comprehend just what the Glorious Sacrifice is, at its very core, Potter.'

Almost on cue, Hagrid cleared his throat loudly, cutting their conversation short.

'So, who'd like to step up and have a crack at trying to round up little old Jeffrey, here?'

As if they'd practiced it, Fred and Tristan slipped out from James' side and each grabbed one of Caspar's arms. Cat danced in from of a lunging Dannil Pyke, drawing him up short of shoving a girl to the ground in front of the entire class in order to help his friend.

Unfortunately, this did have the rather uncomfortable side-effect of leaving James as the one needing to step forward and volunteer to chase down an increasingly-irritated looking Jeffrey.

'I'll do it,' James sighed, stepping out from the group. Behind him, he heard Tristan and Fred release Caspar, and some venomous words were exchanged.

'Course yer will!' Hagrid boomed with joy. 'Bravest o' the lot. Typical Gryffindor. Just like yer father!'

James shuffled up to where Hagrid was gesturing, bringing him a lot closer to Jeffrey than he would have liked.

'So, you were listenin' when I was tellin' yer the best way to round 'em up just now?' Hagrid asked.

'Err…'

'Course yer were! Silly question. _Incarcerous_ will wrap up his wings, you can weight him down with chains and the like. Don't try Stun him, and all o' that.'

' _Rrright.'_ James swallowed nervously.

He noticed a slight orange glow burgeoning in Jeffrey's long neck, and a thought suddenly occurred to him.

'Say Hagrid, Snallygasters can't breathe fire, can they?'

'Well technically, _no._ But-'

With a loud squawk and a ruffling of red and gold feathers, Jeffrey suddenly released a gout of flame as long as James was tall from his mouth, singeing most of the leaves off of the tree he was perched in.

'But Jeffrey has a bit o' Phoenix in him. He doesn't so much as breathe it as he does… _hiccup_ every now and then.'

James eyed the Snallygaster nervously. He was rearranging his feathers and bobbing his head up and down, trying – it appeared – to get into a more uncomfortable position. The eye fixed on James was lazy and half-lidded.

'Wonderful.'

'That's the spirit!' Hagrid beamed, missing the sentiment entirely. 'Right then, you'll want one of these. Now, I don't know much about brooms, but this one had the least splinters, so I'm sure she'll be fine.'

James eyed the school broom that Hagrid proffered. It was an old Cleansweep, so dated that even the model name had faded from the handle. It was wonky, knobbly, knotted and gnarled. And was vibrating alarmingly before James so much as mounted up. He was sure that there were worse brooms in the school's dated store-rooms. He just couldn't remember ever having seen one.

'Atta boy, James,' Hagrid encouraged, as he threw a leg over. Fred gave a wobbly thumbs-up from back in the group of watching students. 'Just like yer father. Bring him back nice and gently now, he can be a feisty one, our Jeffrey.'

And without further ado, Hagrid reached up and gave a firm _yank_ on Jeffrey's tail, sending the Snallygaster into a squawking, flapping, snapping fit, launching itself from the branch with powerful wingbeats and shooting off up into the air, gnashing his teeth and lashing his tail wildly around him.

With a long-suffering sigh, and the tatters of his self-satisfaction at having bested Caspar laying on the dirt around him, James mounted the rickety old school broom and took to the skies in – at best – a lukewarm pursuit.

As he burst up above the tree line, the wind battered and buffeted him. Beneath his fingers, the handle of the broom hummed angrily, as if trying to vibrate his grip loose. It was slow to react to his movements, a surly and recalcitrant thing in the air. A far, far cry from his nimble and agile Nimbus Model One.

Jeffrey climbed up, thirty, fifty feet high. He let out a keening wail and glared back at James with baleful eyes. Beneath his shirt, the Locket slapped fitfully against his chest, almost like a frantic heartbeat of its own.

They flattened out around fifty feet off the ground. Here, Jeffrey decided he had climbed enough, and turned on James, lashing out with that lithe, sinuous neck and snapping his jaws shut mere inches from James' own shoulder. James veered hard to the right, the broom almost bucked him from the seat in response. Jeffrey let out a frustrated growl and lunged once more.

It quickly became a game of cat and mouse – Jeffrey screeching and lunging at James, while he tried to wrestle with the stubborn broom to keep himself out of arm's – or rather jaw's – reach. Once, he even saw the blossoming orange glow flower in Jeffrey's chest, and managed to yank hard enough on the handle to leave only a few of the tail twigs charred by the fiery outburst.

It soon became evident that James was going to have little to no chance to cast the _Incarcerous_ spell to restrain Jeffrey's wings. Even if he _did_ know how to cast it, between the broom, the blustering winds, and Jeffrey's frequent and violent attacks, he was unable to even reach down and free his wand from where it was tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

The wind howled in his ears as they dove back and forth above the Forest, climbing and diving, dancing around one another like leaves on the wind. Tears streamed from James' eyes, and he had to blink constantly to clear his vision. The minutes stretched on. The clearing from whence they had originated flickered in and out of his vision.

 _Think,_ James growled at himself. _How to trap him without magic?_

The momentary distraction pulled James' attention away from Jeffrey, and as such, he was slow to spot the glow that appeared high up on Jeffrey's chest, right where the wiry, muscled neck met the flaring breastbone.

He threw all his weight on the handle, violently veering upwards, but the broom was reluctant to respond. He felt the heat rush past his back. Close – _too_ close. And when he chanced a glance over his shoulder, he saw the entire rear of the broom up in flames.

The ancient broomstick instantly lost power beneath his grasp. The angry vibration slowed to a slow, lethargic hum. His climb upwards stuttered, and then stalled all together. It stopped obeying his commands entirely as, for a painful moment between two breaths, James sat suspended in mid-air nearly a hundred feet above the Forest below.

And then he began to fall.

The broom had died beneath him. He could feel it. Nothing more than a useless lump of wood beneath his fingers. Fire and smoke trailed in a bruised streamer behind him as he rapidly accelerated towards the ground below. There was no way he could alter his momentum to send himself out over the Lake. Jeffrey darted in from his left and nipped at his shoulder, tearing through his robe and narrowly avoiding sinking those razor-sharp fangs deep into James' flesh.

He felt the wind beginning to tear the broom free from his grip and was suddenly overcome by a thought. A wild thought. A dangerous thought. The beginnings of a plan that just might save him form being plastered across a few square metres of Forest floor, and Hagrid from a cell in Azkaban. James spun, craning his neck to see Jeffrey swooping in for another attack. He scowled at the Snallygaster, trying to judge his own speed relative to the creatures', and, at the last possible second, he let go of the broomstick and flung his arms wide.

Chaos. Tumbling, flipping, rolling through the air. Something heavy and hard thumping into his chest. Breath knocked from his lungs. Clutching fingers, a keening howl. Heat – sudden and bright and oh, so close. But then James had it, a handle on the ruff around Jeffrey's neck. He buried his fingers deep into the mane, twisting them around until he heard something in his hand _pop,_ and pain blossom, but his body collided with Jeffrey's own torso, and he felt himself settle, mounted cross-ways across Jeffrey's back.

If yanking its tail was one way to upset a Snallygaster, throwing oneself on top of it while fifty feet in the air was sure to send it into a rage. Jeffrey screeched and roared in his high-pitched, warbling manner. He flapped his feathered wings frantically, jarring James' body and nearly knocking him loose. He waved his long neck and gnashed with his sharp, needle-like teeth, desperate to tear James free. But through it all, James held on fiercely, knotting his fingers deeper into the feathers around Jeffrey's neck.

They were plummeting, fast. James' bulk, combined with the fact that he was half-pinning one of Jeffrey's wings to the Snallygaster's back, meant that they were engaged in a spiralling, eye-watering descent only slightly more controlled than absolute freefall. James leaned all of his weight to the left, letting his legs dangle and angling them slightly closer to the Forest clearing.

His feet, then shins, then his entire body was whipped and snagged by the branches of the highest trees. Then with a clatter and a crash the pair of them burst through the canopy. A moment of bright light, and James shifted his weight, heaving his legs clear of the bony ridges of Jeffrey's wings, allowing the beast to flare the wings at the last moment and slow their descent enough to prevent a truly disastrous landing.

As it was, they tumbled, head over heels over tail and wing, bouncing across the undergrowth. James kept a tight grip as the breath was punched from his lungs. He jarred his shoulder painfully on a rock, and felt a sharp pain in his knee as Jeffrey's entire weight rolled over it momentarily. When they came to rest, James was half-lying, half-sitting, with Jeffrey in a headlock, and the bulk of his weight against the Snallygaster's neck, so that he couldn't thrash about and rake James with his claws.

Hagrid rushed over to help, laughing and clapping as he did so. He freed Jeffrey and offered him some soothing words and a variety of dead rodents as recompense for his troubles. Eventually, with one final baleful glare at James, the Snallygaster took flight, ruffling his feathers indignantly and shooting one last hiccup of flame over their heads just close enough to make James duck one last time.

'Huh.' Hagrid muttered, as he looked up and watched Jeffrey disappear over the tree tops. 'From this angle, it looks like Jeffrey's a girl.'

'You bloody _legend!'_ Fred roared, crashing into James and clapping him on the back vigorously.

Tristan joined in, and Cat hugged all three of them, adding her own musical note in with Hagrid's booming laughter.

'That's my boy!' Hagrid chuckled, over and over. 'Knew yer would be great. Jus' like yer father. Always said it. Jus' like him. He'd be so proud.'

James wasn't entirely sure about just how proud his father would be at his decision to throw himself onto a live and dangerous flying monster at eighty feet up, but he let it slide as the adoration of most of his classmates washed over him. Hagrid gave thirty points to Gryffindor. Dozens of students were tripping over themselves to recount this particular dive, or that instance of snapping jaws. With satisfaction, James noted that even a few of Caspar's hangers-on from earlier were looking at him with a sort of grudging respect. Caspar's own sour grimace was enough to make all of the near-death just about worth it.

Underneath his shirt, unseen to any of his classmates, the Locket hummed happily against his chest.

News of James' heroics spread like Fiendfyre through the school. The animosity he had weathered from his fellow Gryffindors mellowed markedly. Not only had he won back a chunk of the house points he'd previously lost, but he'd done something more insanely bold and almost ridiculously Gryffindor than any of them had ever dreamed of. It would have been a dishonour to their house to _not_ treat him like a hero.

Like any rumour, it sprouted dozens of new faces over the following days, and morphed and grew with each retelling, until he was battling dragons, or had discovered flight, or was the storied Heir of Godric himself, reborn to lead Gryffindor house to greatness. Not only had James managed to stop Caspar's plan to get Hagrid into trouble, but he'd managed to do the very thing that Caspar had sworn to end. The thing he hated most. James had grown his own fame exponentially.

And he was loving every minute of it.

'Oi, Potter. I've ten Galleons says you're riding a dragon to this week's Quidditch match!'

'Potter, teach us how to fly, will you?'

Odette had nearly eviscerated a pair of Gryffindor fifth-year girls who'd asked for James' autograph in some rather curious places.

And thus, James was riding a wave as he marched down to the Quidditch pitch that following weekend alongside his team, ready to take on a winless Ravenclaw side and further Caspar's humiliation. His Nimbus Model One was slung across his shoulder – no Dragons were to be seen – and he joked casually with Fred and Al about just how much they could run up the score to embarrass the Ravenclaws even further.

'At the moment Hufflepuff and Slytherin are ahead of us,' Fred was explaining. 'But we have one game in hand.'

'So, if we win this match, all three of us will have four wins and two losses apiece,' Al added. 'And if we win by two hundred points, we move ahead of Slytherin for second. But if we win by _three_ hundred points, we take first place from Hufflepuff and Ava Adams.'

'I'd love to see the look on Caspar's face if we beat them by three hundred,' James smirked.

'Why, Potter, you can see it right now.'

They rounded a corner to see a supremely smug-looking Caspar Helstrom flanked by Alabaster Shelby and Calantha Merriweather. Professor Longbottom stood a little way back behind them, looking incredibly uncomfortable.

This did _not_ look good.

'What do you want, Helstrom?'

'Me? Nothing. I'm only here to witness.' His smirk brought an unease to James' stomach that he couldn't quite place. An intuitive feeling that something was – or was about to be – _wrong._

'Mister Potter,' Shelby said in his short, gruff tone. 'A word, if it pleases you.'

James eyed the Ministry official warily. His short jacket was perfectly ironed, the flaring tails stiff and starched. His boots and his buttons warred with the gleaming silver Ministry emblem on his breast to shine the most brightly against the stark black of his uniform.

'It doesn't please him,' Fred growled from James' shoulder.

'Or us,' Al said, crossing his arms and stepping up on James' other side.

'You _mmm_ istake that as a request, children,' drawled Calantha Merriweather. Caspar's smirk grew at her words. Her narrow, squinting gaze regarded them coolly over sharp, severe cheekbones. 'It was a _nnn_ order.'

James shifted on the spot. Fred made an instinctive move towards his wand. Shelby caught it and gave a derisive snort in response.

'It is the view of the Ministry – and thus the view of all of Hogwarts faculty-'

Professor Longbottom coughed pointedly here, loud enough to interrupt Shelby as he spoke. James' eyes darted over to the Professor, but he couldn't catch his gaze.

'Of the _majority_ of the faculty, that whilst you have been permitted to return to Hogwarts at the grace of the Ministry's forgiveness and benign countenance, your complete rehabilitation must needs be seen to in a more _pointed_ manner. We can't after all, risk the safety of any of our students by exposing them to another such heinous outburst as the one you have already shown you are capable of displaying.'

'What are you getting at?' James growled, not even bothering to hide his distaste.

'In our capacity as official stewards, and overseers of the discipline at Hogwarts,' Merriweather stated. 'We are of the belief that the anger that birthed your… outburst was generated on the Quidditch Pitch. As an eliminatory control on seeing that this does not happen again, the Ministry has backed our recommendation that you be removed from all Quidditch-related activities, effective immediately.'

Beside him, Al gave a tiny, strangled hiccup. James blinked slowly. 'What?'

'You are banned from Quidditch, Potter,' Shelby barked. 'Permanently. This is part of your punishment.'

'You can't do that!'

'Consider yourself lucky.'

'That isn't fair-!'

'It was the price for your return to the school. It was what the professors agreed on.'

James spun to Professor Longbottom. 'You _knew?'_

'James, we tried to fight it. I know how much Quidditch means to you-'

'No, you don't! If you did, you would have kept me away rather than this!'

'Their decision is final, James.'

'You're my head of house, can't you do- do _something?!'_

'My hands are tied, James.'

'Only because you let them.' James' words were harsh, and unthinking. He saw the flicker of hurt in Professor Longbottom's eyes, but was too wild with anger to feel bad at it.

Ironically, however, it was Professor Longbottom's own words that were all that was keeping James from lashing out at Caspar where he stood, pointedly behind his mother's shoulder, radiating a smug satisfaction that James could practically taste on his tongue. _Do better._ James spun away, facing back up the corridor, turning his back both on the Ministry officials, and on the Professor, as well.

'We'll deal to Ravenclaw for you, James,' Al said, uncertainty on his face and in his shifting, awkward posture.

James nodded, and pulled his brother into a rough hug. 'See that you do.'

Fred was next, and James pulled him in close to whisper in his ear.

'Give them hell,' he breathed.

'Always.'

'You know that _stuff_ you said you'd ordered? The stuff you got from your father, that I told you not to use to upset anybody?'

James felt Fred's grin, and the tense of his body as excitement stole over him. 'Of course.'

'Prepare it. We're going to use it. All of it. We're going to war.'


	28. Honour

Darkness. Absolute darkness and the thick, cloying scent of stale air. A stagnant stillness that spoke of a room starved of sunlight for longer than it could remember. It brought with it a closeness, and a sense of long forgotten things that added an air of gravitas and great import to the conspiracy that budded within.

Meagre currents began to stir the air. The heavy breaths of the figures newly gathered. Suddenly, there was light. The single wavering flame of a lone candle. Hungrily, it ate up the darkness and cast back an underbelly of hazy smoke to turn night into shadowy twilight. Where the flame flickered hastily, the smoke seethed and furled, obscuring the faces of the five hooded shapes who now occupied the room.

With the burgeoning of the light came the first hint of sound. A small buzzing, high in the room. A tiny insect sparked to life. Its mind, or at least its instinct, ignited by the source of light and heat. It gave a steady, monotonous hum to the crackle and splutter of the candle. The steady drone was reminiscent of the chanting of monks before a ritual of great import.

Over this, came the first voice to venture out into the silence that bound them.

'Welcome, brothers. Sister.'

Three figures of roughly equal height to the first nodded their shadowed hoods. The fourth, taller than all, did likewise. A sheen of silver-blonde hair spilled forth from her hood, and shimmered like liquid quicksilver in the candlelight.

'It is not on the battlefield that wars are won, not by screaming soldiers with blazing wands, but here, in shadowed rooms such as this, where men and women shift pieces across the game board, changing the lay of the land, and the course of history.'

'We renew our commitment to The Cause, and take an Oath to see demise to those who oppose us. This we swear.' All five intoned the Words as one. Even the buzzing of the insect that shared the room with them seemed to increase in intensity.

'Do you swear yourselves to our Lord, the Spirit of Chaos?' spoke the first.

'We do,' answered the four.

'Do you pledge to follow his ideals, non-existent as they are?'

'We do.'

'Will you seek to deliver His Gift to all deemed foe, so that they be at the mercy of his vengeance?'

'We will.'

'And on what do you swear these solemn oaths?'

The buzzing suddenly stopped.

'Ack- Fred, I think I swallowed the fly!'

'Damnit, Cat, how?'

'I was – ack – yawning. _Eww,_ it's still alive!'

Lights flickered on around the room. James Potter, squinting at the sudden brightness, hurried over to where Kattala Lovegood was bouncing up and down, waving her hands about and silently retching.

'One time!' Fred Weasley groaned, staring up at the ceiling in exasperation. 'Is it too much to ask to do this _one time_ without somebody messing it up?'

'It is a _touch_ over the top, mate,' Tristan Macmillan shrugged, lowering his hood despite a fresh wave of spluttered protests from Fred. 'We're just setting out to rig a few booby traps here and there, really.'

James, where he was peering with his wandlight down Cat's throat in search of the cause of their disruption, grinned privately. Mistake, Tristan.

'A few booby traps? _A few booby traps?!_ Boy, what we're about to undertake will make anything you've seen to date seem like a childish prank conducted by a toddler. We're going to…'

James tuned out Fred's rant, as Cat's desperate whining became teary. _'Accio fly!'_ he whispered. With a resentful little whirr, and a bundle of spit, the fly shot up from the depths of Cat's throat and out into the room, immediately shooting up to its earlier perch in the ceiling, where James assumed it was glaring down at the lot of them after its near-death experience.

'Oh, _thank you_ James,' Cat breathed. 'I've never eaten fly before. Tastes worse than Splurgen toes.'

'I'll, erm, take your word on that one, Cat.'

Fred eventually restored some semblance of order, though this time without the darkness and hoods and air of mystery. They sat around in a small circle on some of the rickety, broken chairs that called this room home, and sipped the Butterbeer that James had smuggled in while they discussed plans. Fred walked them through all the new equipment he'd asked for from his father, including a "magic carpet" that would spring to life and wrap up anyone who walked on it, candles that melted into a pile of wax which transformed into a misshapen little manlike figure, about waste-high and intent on assaulting anyone nearby, and a round, clay ball about the size of James' two clenched fists together. Fred just called it a "cusser", and said that none of them ought to touch it, if they valued their continued wellbeing.

James smiled as they plotted and schemed. Between Fred's flair for the chaotic, Cat's wild – and often brilliant – ideas, Clip's pragmatism, and the subtle steering back on target from James and Tristan, they began to formulate a plan that would bring the school – and more importantly the Ministry's control over it – to its knees.

There was scant little satisfaction that James could take from his team's victory over Ravenclaw the weekend prior. His last-minute dismissal had left the Gryffindors in disarray, and thus their margin of victory over the hapless Ravenclaws had been nowhere near sufficient to move them up the ladder over Slytherin or Hufflepuff.

On top of this was the prospect of never being able to return to the Quidditch pitch again. Never feeling the rush that came with the competition, the gritty, trench warfare that was the Chaser's game. The joy of victory, the satisfaction of a perfectly-executed manoeuvre. Merlin, but he even longed for the agony of defeat, if it meant he could play just one more match.

And then he felt like Professor Longbottom had abandoned him, as well. As his head of house, there _must_ have been something he could have done to prevent this from happening. There just had to be. James was convinced that he hadn't done enough. That his mantra of _choose your battles,_ was more and more looking like the coward's way out. James was torn between his desire to _do better,_ and the zeal that burned within him to fight back. To lash out at the authoritarian control the Ministry was taking, as it appeared that nobody else was willing.

All of this had put him in rather a sour mood over the week that followed, and it took a trip back to the eighth floor to manage to draw him back out of it.

'-haven't been there since first year,' Clip was saying.

'Not since F.A.R.T club.'

'D'you think it's _safe?_ '

'Of course it is, Rosalie. Sixth- and seventh-years are still allowed to use it, aren't they?'

'Do you think the Lethifolds still live there?'

'Honestly, Dempsey, nobody believed you in first year. They certainly won't now.'

'But I swear…'

James let the speculation wash over him, as the Gryffindor and Slytherin fourth-years followed Professor Meadows up towards the eighth floor for their Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson. They marched at a brisk pace, the Professor setting the rhythm with the step- _thump_ cadence of her wooden-legged gait.

He expected some sort of… something, when they crossed the threshold into the eighth floor. Some show of power, perhaps, or even a welcoming feeling to greet his first return to these halls since the disastrous end to their first year. But he might as well have been strolling through his dormitory towards the bathroom, for all the response he felt.

Judging by the view from the windows outside they were somewhere in the east wing on the third or fourth floor. Though when Zoe Meadows led them through a large, unfamiliar steel door on their left, the vista all of a sudden switched to one from the North, and much higher up than James thought the castle extended. The eighth floor had mind-bending habit of not following any laws he could wrap his head around.

Although he himself found a distinct lack of familiarity in the eighth floor, the Locket on his chest seemed to hum almost contentedly, pulsing in time with his own heartbeat. It grew warmer or cooler as they past different doors, and he had the distinct impression – though he didn't know _why –_ that it could lead him back to the Heart, if he so desired.

He didn't.

The class strode through four more corridors, a mixture of narrow and gloomy then wide and grandiose without any sort of warning, before the door that Professor Meadows opened lead to her destination. She pocketed the Anchor as she ushered them in – the device used by the staff to navigate through the shifting, ephemeral corridors up in this section of the castle.

She winked at James as he entered and flashed him a smile. She'd been decidedly warmer since James returned, going so far as to favour him with another quite inappropriate hug in the middle of his first Defence lesson upon return, right in front of the rest of the class. James was just glad she hadn't tried to force him and Holly to share a room together any more times.

'Got a good one for you today, Jamesy,' she whispered.

'Nobody has called be _Jamesy_ since I was about three years old.'

She reached out to pinch his cheek like a coddling grandmother, but James was too nimble, ducking away to the sound of her laughter and hiding himself firmly in the centre of the group of students.

The majority of the class was milling about in the centre of the room. It was a windowless one – skylights looking up to a slate-grey sky above provided all of the light. The room itself was shaped like an amphitheatre, with broad, stone steps marching up each wall of the octagonal space. In the centre, a large depression over fifty yards across was covered by more rugs and strips of carpet than James had ever seen in his life. And right in the middle of the open space stood a small table, upon which sat a glowing green orb, about the size of James' head.

'Welcome!' Professor Meadows announced. Her voice echoed off the high ceiling, as did her wooden leg as she shuffled awkwardly down the wide steps and circled the room to stand before them. 'I've got a little something different planned for you today-'

 _Wham!_

The door to the room slammed open, and Calantha Merriweather strode purposefully in, trailed by the silent, elder Ministry wizard who never spoke. James called him and the wrinkled old witch that was his counterpart the Watchers. That was all they ever seemed to do.

'Your paltry attempts to hide from assessment cannot distract us, _Professor_ Meadows.'

The way she spat the word _Professor_ – with such obvious distaste – made it clear that she thought the young Zoe Meadows was undeserving of such a title.

'No such thing, _Miss_ Merriweather. It would seem you've your wand in a knot over nothing.'

Calantha Merriweather and the Watcher pushed through the group of students and made their way to the front, glaring up at where Zoe Meadows leaned casually back on the row of seats about halfway up the steps, her arms folded across her chest.

'Hiding up on the eighth floor, when we both know you were due to be evaluated?'

'It's the only room that suits my needs for today.'

'Hurrying to start your lesson early, so that we might not make it, as well?'

'I'd have though you at the Ministry – of all people – would appreciate a little punctuality. It would have to be a core tenet of bureaucracy, wouldn't it? And nobody does bureaucracy like the Ministry of Magic.'

Calantha huffed irritably. Her Watcher pet shuffled and glared out at the class.

'You may proceed with your lesson so that your competency – or lack thereof – may be assessed.'

'My heart is all aquiver,' Professor Meadows said drily. Calantha Merriweather huffed again and remained at the head of the class, where she took out a notebook and began scrawling line after line of text.

'As I was saying, class,' Professor Meadows continued, unable to hide the nervous flit of her eyes to the Ministry Official's notepad every now and then. 'A different method to the lesson today. Something a little more on the practical side. One-on-one duelling is well and good, and a key skill for any wizard looking to protect themselves from Dark Magic, but, as was seen at the Battle of Hogwarts, and other such battles throughout wizarding history, your foe will not often be walking up and bowing to you before they let you know just when they're about to let off their first spell.

'To truly hone your wits and your skills, you need something a little stiffer – quiet Weasley, quit your giggling – and so that is what I've prepared for you today.'

A buzz rose from among the students. James shared glances with Fred and Clip. A clear space suddenly opened up around Holly Brooks as everyone nearby took a long stride away from her.

'There are no rules, in a true battle. It is a melee. Barely controlled chaos held in check by the illusion of discipline, more often than the thing itself. As much as I'd love to pitch you all in a battle to the death, however, that might be a touch frowned upon by our Ministry _friends,_ so you have but one rule today – nothing lethal.

'Other than that, the battlefield is yours. The last one standing, holding the glowing sphere you are gathered around, wins.'

That was it. No further introduction, or warning or anything. Calantha Merriweather squealed as a burst of spellfire blossomed around her, and she was forced to scramble up the steps for cover. A wave of students near Holly suddenly pitched to the ground, the gap between them clearly not enough. James fired off a Stunner at the back of a faceless student before him before diving wildly off to his left and seeking any skerrick of cover that he could.

He found it in the form of one of the rugs that littered the floor. He rolled, grabbing a corner and flinging it up around his body, feeling a soft _whump_ as a spell connected with it and singed a hole in the centre. The acrid smoke choked him, and he tossed that one aside, before jabbing his wand hastily and setting another pair of rugs up as a sort of makeshift defensive wall behind which he crouched, his breath already coming in frantic, rushing gasps.

He was unsurprised to see Fred and Cat fall in beside him. Not even for a moment did he think about hexing them. Whatever small advantage it might have gained him would surely be outweighed by the detriment of having nobody that he could trust at his back.

Sadly, Clip had fallen in the initial, chaotic melee. James saw his unmoving body, not far from where he, himself had been standing. He lay tangled with two other Gryffindors and a Slytherin – all of whom had been a half-second too slow, or simply lacking in luck when the fight started.

A sudden _whoosh_ sound rushed over them, battering at James' flimsy defensive walls, setting the rugs to quivering and bathing them in a blast of hot, stale air. Like someone had just opened a portal up to the desert beside them.

'I'm on it, I'm on it,' Fred muttered, throwing open his satchel bag and sticking his arm in right up to the shoulder. 'Keep us covered,' he added, tongue clenched between his teeth as he fumbled for something within.

James lifted his head up for a moment – and promptly popped back down as a jet of purple light zinged past, coming so close as to tug at a few strands of hair on its way.

'Bloody hell!'

He tried again – this time, in synch with Cat, who peered around the edge of the rug on her side. Away from the relative calm of their little makeshift fort, the room was chaos.

Spellfire zipped and whirred in every direction. Reds and purples and greens. The occasional orange and yellow. The spells glittered and fizzed and _cracked_ where they made contact, burning afterimages into James' eyes, and leaving ringing in his ears.

A few students had tried to follow suit, with varying degrees of success. James fired a spell at a rug which was failing to hide Odin Mills and Corvus Summerbee – two of Preston Lynch's friends. He grinned as he watched the rug turn on them under the power of his Charm, wrapping them up bodily despite their struggles and protests. Cat made easy work of the pair of them, dispatching them with a pink spell that made their eyes go glassy and their tongues loll, fat and swollen in their mouths.

The Gryffindors had mostly followed after James' example. Small, fractured groups and uneasy alliances had formed on the right-hands side of the bowl-shaped depression, as James saw it. Those who could cast a decent _Protego_ hunkered behind the shimmering shields, while others either held or Charmed the piles of rugs to come to their defence. An uneasy sort of standoff had developed among them. They were arrayed such that the moment they started attacking on one flank, they'd open themselves up to a counterattack from behind and so surely fall in the effort.

The Slytherins, on the other hand, were shifting like desert sands, whipped and dancing beneath a violent, twisting wind. They formed groups long enough only for one of their members to see an opportunity to overthrow the leader. Students fell to spells in the back, again and again. They grunted, cursed and screamed at one another. Every time they'd try and edge away from the central knot of green-robed figures, a Gryffindor would happily pick them off, slowly whittling down their number in what had the makings of a house-against-house battle.

'Get her!' Viola Greengrass was screaming at the largest coalition of Slytherins, who were nervously encircling Holly where she stood. 'You can't snog your way out of this one, Brooks. C'mon, you useless boys, forget about the broom closet and get her! Stun her! She can't beat ten of you at once!'

James did the whole room a favour and smacked Viola in the chest with a Stunner that sent her crumpling to the floor in blessed silence.

Still, nobody had so much as touched the orb that innocently sat upon its pedestal in the centre of the room.

Then a few things happened at once.

The Slytherins devolved into absolute chaos. James' dispatching of their apparent leader causing them to practically dive on top on one another in a great scrum of arms, legs, elbows, knees and, of course, spellfire. Preston Lynch, thinking along the same vein as James, vaulted from his fortified position and bolted for the orb under cover of chaos. Fred – _finally –_ pulled his arm from his satchel with a triumphant 'Aha!' and produced what appeared to be a tray of a half-dozen eggs.

'This isn't the time to be doing the fucking groceries!' James growled as he leapt over the makeshift wall of their fort and dashed out into the fray.

The Slytherins were a problem for later. With any luck, they'd batter themselves down into nothing and leave only a few stragglers upright to pick off one by one. Lynch, though, James could do something about. He'd be damned if he let him get his hands on that orb. Securing it, and retreating to a defensible position would make it almost impossible to take it from him.

' _Depulso!'_ James roared, lowering his wand at a shifting, wiggling wall of rugs to his left. His spell blasted into it, throwing the group of students behind it up against the stone steps that marked the boundary of their arena. There was a solid _thump,_ a groan, and then no more movement after the dust from his spell settled.

Up ahead, Lynch had been hit by a trip jinx, and struggled to regain his footing. He slashed savagely through a Stunner sent his way, and fired back with a barrage that overwhelmed a Gryffindor position and sent Emry Sameer and two of his friends scrambling from the smouldering ruins of their fort. James had an opening, but before he could take it he, too, came under fire from his left.

He dodged two spells sent his way, but a third clipped him on the shoulder, spinning him around and knocking him to his knees. He raised his wand and blindly slashed and _Iminnuum._ Brief satisfaction as he felt it bite, and a spell fizzled before him. But two more came again. He heard Leah and Rosalie giggle as they rained down the enfilade upon him. So much for any sense of house loyalties.

His _Protego_ was weak, and shattered beneath the blast. Something zipped by his shoulder from behind him, and James began to realise the extent of his folly in leaving the shelter to pursue Lynch. Leah hit him with a Stinging Jinx that rendered his wand hand a numb, fumbling thing, and he could do nothing in response as another wave of spells was prepared to collide unimpeded-

Up until a massive shower of sparks and a great concussive blow rocked their fort. James spun to see Fred, egg-like object in hand, lobbing another projectile behind their walls. This one shattered the final remnants of their shields, and sent Leah, Rosie, and Eldon Prescott sprawling every which way across the battlefield. None of them got up.

'I call 'em 'Sploders,' Fred grinned, gesturing with one of his eggs in his hand.

James grinned and nodded. They were certainly pretty bloody 'splodey.

The Slytherin numbers were beginning to thin out. Four of them circled Holly, wands lowered. They clearly didn't like the odds.

' _Imedimenta!'_ James roared in Preston's direction. He clipped him in the leg. Lynch collapsed again, only feet from the orb. James had an angle on a shot that would finish him.

' _James!'_ a familiar cry from his defensive position. Cat had been blasted free of their fort, and was coming under attack from a spell that had turned her own hair into a living thing turned against her. Her long, silver-blonde locks crept up over her face, smothering her mouth and nose, strangulating her plaintive cries.

Fred threw another 'Sploder, but this group were ready, and raised a double-layer of _Protego_ shields. Just enough to dull the blast that rocked the battlefield.

James spun from his attack on Lynch and darted back to his friends. He fired a _Bombarda_ at the fort where the attack on Cat had come from, but again his spell was deflected.

Thinking quickly – and with panic rising – James lowered his wand in Cat's direction. She'd been brought to her knees, and was writhing on the floor. He couldn't even hear her voice any more. Her hair had smothered her wholly.

' _Diffindo!'_ James' spell leapt from his wand and, with pinpoint precision, cut the locks loose around her throat. He vaulted the wall to re-join Fred behind cover, and the battlefield around them ground to a sudden standstill as Cat looked down at her severed locks, clutching at the ruined ends of what had once been a flowing curtain of hair that reached down beyond her waist.

She let out a scream that could have woken the dead. James clapped his hands to his ears. All action seemed to cease. The entire class – those left standing – froze in what they were doing. A lone spell fizzled across the room. Cat's wail seemed endless, until a jet of red light from the knot of Slytherins leapt forth and smacked her in the face, sending her crumpling into a heap, unmoving. Silvery locks lay scattered about her like a pool of shimmering blood.

James afforded himself less than half a second to regather his wits, before nodding to Fred and vaulting from cover once more to chase down Preston before he used the distraction to regain shelter on the far side of the room. Fred covered his advance with another 'Sploder, and James used the massive concussion and the shower of dancing sparks to press forward, succeeding in first tripping, and then Stunning Lynch mere feet from his own defensive fort.

James dove for the orb. He heard a shout from behind him to see a group of six surviving Gryffindors swarming over the edges of Fred's position. It seemed the entirety of the remaining population of Gryffindor house had banded together to take him down – a move unprecedented and clearly not predicted by either of them.

James clipped one student with a Knockback Jinx, but five more fell upon Fred with wands blazing.

'You bastards, you won't take me alive!' Fred cried, and James saw him toss his final two 'Sploders down at his feet, at point-blank range, just as the attackers reached a point where they were unable to pull back.

The resulting detonation sent bodies and carpet – and even some small chips of masonry – flying madly around the arena. Dust hung in the air like a thick fog, and James had to push himself up on shaky arms from where he'd been thrown. When the ringing finally stopped in his ears, and he righted his veering vision once again, he saw the orb rolling fortuitously along the floor towards him. He eagerly snatched it, and regained his feet, surveying the destruction around.

Bodies lay everywhere – over twenty students lay in the position they'd been struck. Some still groaned in pain, some laughed hysterically and drooled. Most were silent. Only one other figure still stood, with wand in hand.

Holly Brooks.

'Shit,' James grumbled to himself, steeling himself for the showdown. They eyed each other across the room with flat, level glares. James was unflinching from her frosty, grey-eyed regard.

Sudden movement from behind her – a Slytherin who was still conscious. Georgia Braithwaite was nursing an incredible black eye but could see well enough to raise her wand and point it at Holly's back, not three feet from her-

' _Stupefy!'_

The spell was from James' lips before he could think. The jet of red light sprung gleefully across the room and slammed into Georgia's chest. She slumped back to the floor and her wand clattered free from her lifeless fingers.

Holly looked shocked, staring between Georgia and James. Now that he had a chance to study her, James saw that she was far, far more exhausted than himself. She'd almost single-handedly fought off her entire house. And was showing the fatigue in her slumped shoulders, her ragged breathing, and the multitude of scrapes and bruises that dotted her pale skin. A trickle of blood adorned her chin from a split on her lower lip.

'Thanks, James,' she said, lowering her wand slightly and offering up a shaky smile.

'Don't like seeing someone shot in the back,' was his gruff response. 'It's a coward's move.'

'I thought I'd hit her with a Paralysis Hex,' Holly explained, gesturing with her wand hand. 'But I must have lost focus for a moment. You know how it is, fighting your entire house, and all.'

'Err, not really,' James admitted, shrugging as he lowered his own wand. The farce of their surroundings was not lost on James, the bodies littered in dust and rubble, the occasional splash of blood. The spicy tang in the air that spoke of an abundance of magic present. And the pair of them holding the most civil conversation they'd had in years in the midst of it all.

'Trust Viola to set them against me,' Holly sighed. 'She's been out to get me all year. Ever since Anthony and I…'

She trailed off and actually _giggled,_ holding a hand to her mouth. Holly Brooks didn't _giggle,_ especially not in the presence of James Potter. Not any more at least.

' _Rrright…_ '

'Anyway, thanks for saving me. What I really wanted to say, though, and I've been trying for a while to find the right words for this, is that James, I think we- _Stupefy.'_

James awoke some time later, looking up at the smirking face of Professor Zoe Meadows.

'- _bitch!'_ he roared, sitting bolt upright and glaring around the room. The sudden movement left him with a wave of dizziness, and he needed the steadying hands of the Professor to keep him upright.

'She's long gone,' Professor Meadows grinned. 'All of them. Thought it'd be best if you were the last one I woke.'

'That traitor! That thieving, conniving, lying, sneaking little-'

'Slytherin?'

'That too.'

Professor Meadows laughed outright as she helped James to his feet. There was an acrid taste in his mouth – a leftover effect of being magically Stunned. He felt the tender spot that her spell had hit him on the chest. She'd left him with a mark to remember, as well.

'Oh, boy, she played you like a fiddle. You had it _won._ She was dead on her feet _,_ and your thick Gryffindor head went and messed it all up. It was hilarious, it was beautiful, and it was oh, so predictable.'

'I'm not _predictable,'_ James growled, accepting a glass of water and a small stick of chocolate from the Professor. They were the only two left in the room.

'Maybe not in some sense of the word: you use a variety of spells; you're fast on your feet; and your defensive magic is improving by the day. But put one of little James Potter's friends in danger and you can read him like a book.'

James winced. He'd dropped his objective in a heartbeat to help out Cat. He would have done the same for Fred, if his fate hadn't already been sealed. And then Holly… well that spoke for itself, really.

'But it's just not right, attacking someone from behind like that. It just feels… _dirty._ '

Without warning, Zoe Meadows reached out and cuffed James around the ear. She was lightning fast in her movements. The blow caught James by surprise and he choked on his chocolate, eventually needing the professor's firm slap on the back to get himself back in order.

'Piss on that, James. Forget your honour. Throw it out the window the moment you draw your wand. Honour is what men in purple robes who've never known dirt under their fingernails talk about as they prance around a duelling platform and curtsey to everyone in sight. This isn't a _duel,_ Potter. Life isn't a series of nicely laid out duels for you to prance your way through without getting your skirt grubby. Life's a fucking _fight,_ James. It's a war. There's no space for honour in war. The honourable end up dead in the dirt, their sightless eyes staring up at the ones who _use their fucking head.'_

James blinked, taken aback by the heat in the Professor's voice.

'So, you're saying I should have let Georgia hex Holly?'

'No, idiot. I'm saying you should have been firing curses at her the moment you could tell your arse from your elbow. There's no way Georgia would have landed that. But between you, one of you might have got lucky.'

'How can you be so sure? That Holly would dodge Georgia's spell, I mean.'

'Because I've seen her fight. Potter, I trained her.'

' _You?'_ James spluttered. He couldn't stop his eyes darting down to glance at Professor Meadows' missing leg.

'Idiot.' She punctuated it by slapping James over the head again. Now both of his ears were stinging.

'Before… _that,'_ James gestured to her leg. 'You could…' he finished by waving his arm behind him at the carnage left after the battle.

'Before this, I could have turned you in knots, and Hexed you three times before you'd even managed to draw your wand.'

The realisation hit James, of just what Professor Meadows had lost. What she'd been. What she _could have_ been. Taken from her in a heartbeat. It was no wonder some days her mood was darker than a Slytherin's humour.

'How…?'

'Auror training. I tried to rescue somebody from a falling building. A building I had no business being in at the time. A building that I abandoned my objective to enter. And so got in the way of a nasty Severing Curse that ended my career then and there.'

Breath hissed between James' teeth. He'd known the bones of the story, if not the details. They tasted bitter on his tongue, as he tried to swallow them. There was only one person he knew that Zoe would risk so much to rescue. Teddy. What a breathtakingly high price she had paid.

'If it happened again, would you still…?'

Her eyes clouded over suddenly, and she gestured for the door. 'Time you were on your way, Potter.' Her tone made it abundantly clear that there was no room to argue the dismissal.

That same evening was Quidditch practice for the Gryffindors. For James, it meant disappearing from the common room until long after the team had finished and gone to bed, so that he didn't have to deal with the pain of watching them return, full of excitement and discussing the latest game plans, formations and strategies that they had dreamed up down on the pitch.

Tonight, though, he got only as far as the Fat Lady's portrait before his gloomy reverie was interrupted.

'You there! Boy! Potter, is it? Save me at once!'

James turned to see the Fat Lady swatting frantically at a small bird that seemed to be repeatedly attacking her portrait, flying again and again into the sunny blue sky above her head.

Reaching up, he discovered that it wasn't a bird at all, but a small, folded piece of paper, delicately crafted into the shape of a swallow. The detail was intricate, even down to the shape of the tail. It was folded from mint green paper.

'Oh, thank you, _thank you!_ I've been fending off the beast for hours.'

James thought back, and remembered some students leaving the common room not ten minutes prior. 'Really?'

'Well… it _felt_ like hours! You ought to have been here sooner! All the things I do for you, and this is the thanks I get? Why I ought to…'

Her rant faded off as James headed down the corridor. He opened the piece of paper and was unsurprised to find his own name scrawled in delicate penmanship on the front of an envelope that fell open at his touch.

Only a single word was written within: _Balcony._ Full lips painted pale pink had signed the note with a kiss. There was no doubting from whom it had been sent.

Deciding that Odette's company was far preferable to his own on a night like this, James headed down through the castle towards the narrow wooden stair leading to the clock tower balcony. _That_ clock tower balcony – a spot that the couple had somehow, without any word being spoken on the topic, cemented as _theirs,_ simply through the numerous meaningful rendezvous they had shared there.

The last light of the day had faded by the time he reached the base of the stairway. And he arrived on the platform to overlook a scene of the castle grounds bathed in a pallid grey wash. The approaching darkness suffused the scene with a sort of grainy, unfocused light that melded the trees of the Forbidden Forest into one single smudge of deeper grey, the ripples on the Lake fading into its smooth, velvet surface.

Odette stood waiting for him, leaning up against the woodwork in a gloomy recess. She wore jeans, and a Slytherin Quidditch jersey that reached almost to her knees. The end of February had not brought about any respite to the cold. The Serpent of her house was picked out in sequins, twirling and dancing upon her chest. Her hair hung loose, spilling down to just lightly caress her shoulders. The faded ashen blonde glimmered with an almost ethereal glow in the half-light of dusk.

'Took your time,' she smiled.

James met her for a kiss. Swift and light. A far cry from their heated moments in the Great Hall upon his return.

'Absence makes the heart, and all of that.'

'I hear you've had an eventful day.'

'Notable only for its frustrations.'

'The little fourth years were all abuzz in the common room tonight, about how they'd bested Potter and Gryffindor. Even Holly Brooks' flat little chest was puffed up with pride as she strutted about like a prissy little peacock.'

'She fights like such a… a Slytherin.'

'And I hear you died like a Gryffindor. James Potter, ever a sucker for a pout and a shake of the hips.'

'Fine,' James smirked. 'Next time _you_ try that on me I'll make sure to Hex you in the face instead. Sound better?'

'Oh, but James, when it comes to me, you simply can't resist.'

She made a face to prove her point. And even though it was a mockery, even though they both knew it as such, James couldn't help but prove her right.

They came up for air some time later. Odette's laugh was melodic and triumphant. She tossed her head playfully and drew a finger along the line of her bottom lip.

'Don't ever change, James Potter. This shan't be nearly as fun.'

James grinned, but it faded as he turned to face the grounds before them. In the smoky light he could just make out the spires marking the Quidditch pitch. If he squinted, and with only a small stretch of imagination, he could discern figures darting in and out between them, buzzing like wasps between the goal hoops that caught the last light of a sun James had thought long since dead. His silence was a glum one.

'You'll be back,' Odette whispered, appearing beside him at the railing. Out here, the wind teased and plucked at her hair. It danced playfully across her face, making her gaze seem almost coy.

'I wish I could be so certain.' Even from this distance, to watch was bitter ash in James' mouth.

'They can't hold you out forever.'

'I reckon they'll damn well try.'

'Then they're fools. You are James Potter. You were born to be up there. Born to fly. They think by grabbing on to your broomstick and halting your ascent that they will somehow find themselves drawn up into the spotlight? Pah, they are nothing to you. Nothing to _us._ They'll fade before the light of our brilliance, James. Just you wait.'

It was difficult to stay glum, in the face of Odette's resolution on their combined ascendancy. 'It doesn't bother you, then?'

Odette removed her hand from where it had been resting atop James' own. He regretted the question, but felt he'd needed to ask it. Something that had been nagging in the back of his mind. Without Quidditch, what was he to her?

'James, it is a part of your legend, nothing more. A piece that makes the whole. Maybe I deserved it, though it stings that you'd think me so shallow. You should know, though, that it wasn't only the Quidditch that drew me in. You're more to me than that, James. I would – I _do_ – love you just the same, Quidditch or no.'

Breath hissed from between James' teeth. He felt as if he'd been suddenly winded. He'd not been expecting _that._ He took her hand once more, ran a thumb across her palm and looked into her eyes.

He could say the same, but it would seem reactionary, insincere. She seemed to know this, and it bothered her not at all. Little existed that could dent the tidal surge of confidence that Odette Mansfield possessed.

'And besides,' she continued, unfazed. She left the moment behind them. Another significant marker on their journey. One James was sure that they'd be revisiting. 'There's a part of me that prefers you out here, on the sidelines. Zee Fisher doesn't hold a candle to your skills on the pitch. I'm already sizing up where I'll put this year's Quidditch Trophy in my bedroom.'

James groaned, and gave her a friendly nudge with his shoulder. She laughed again.

Below them, the Gryffindors were making their way back up to the castle. They could barely make out the group by sight, only their jovial joking and boastful conversations gave away their position. The time had melted away beneath Odette's silken touch and before the lilt of her honeyed words.

Above them, the clock tolled, announcing their curfew. James turned to leave but was surprised to find that Odette hadn't moved.

'Shouldn't we head off?' he asked. The chill creeping into the air was verging on bitter. By the time they descended the narrow stair, the Gryffindors would be long since gone. James could slink back into his bed and draw the curtains tight, finding peace in the forced ignorance of his team's workings.

'I thought you might like to stay.'

There was something in her words. Something _more,_ that took James a long time to grasp. His eyes widened. He found himself suddenly speechless.

Odette's gaze – always so bright and vibrant – was softer, smokier. But heavy-lidded eyes still peered out at him with the same intensity. In them, he saw the promise for all that he wanted. Everything he could summon up the imagination to desire was there waiting for him.

And James Potter balked.

His mind flickered back to conversations with his friends, only a few days prior. To The Book handed to him by Tristan. To everything else he was trying to balance in his life at the moment: finding Renshaw; rescuing Rain – Merlin, discovering if Rain was even _worth_ rescuing; school; his friends; the Ministry…. He just couldn't find it in himself to accept this one more burden wrapped up by Odette and offered as a gift.

'I-' James began. His intent rushed ahead of his words. He saw the subtle shift in Odette's posture. The sink of the shoulders. The brief flickering away of her eyes. All that she'd done, all that she'd said this night had built up to this point. James saw it all now, falling in to place before him, and kicked himself for allowing himself to be backed in to such a situation.

If there was any true vexation, she hid it well. He saw her bite the inside of her cheek. When she met his eyes again, that enticing allure was gone, replaced by her normal regard. If that voracious intensity could ever be referred to as normal.

'Good night, then, James,' she whispered.

'Yea,' he stammered, retreating already, his mind awash with conflicting emotions. 'Good night.'


	29. Smoke

_It can't be true. It just_ can't _be._

Cassandra Featherstone sat alone, ensconced within Hogwarts' exclusive and reclusive Waterfall room. Rough-hewn stone walls glistened wetly all around her. The steady trickle of running water that adorned each wall added a messy, hectic overtone that well matched the chaos of her thoughts.

" _There are six ways to Anchor Runic keystones…"_ Cassandra wrote, then stopped and frowned down at the parchment. She'd written that very line three times already.

Cassandra threw her hands up in exasperation and flopped backwards, so she lay flat on her back on the small, threadbare rug in the centre of the room. Tiny, disembodied orbs of warm orange light floated above her, providing the room's illumination. She scrunched her eyes shut tight to hide from their mocking gaze. They left tiny pinpricks of bright purple afterimage behind her eyelids.

Subconsciously, Cassandra began biting on the end of her nails as she wallowed alone in her misery. The faded blue paint was chipped and worn. The ends of her fingers were constantly red and raw. She should have repainted them days ago. Just like she _should_ be doing her Ancient Runes homework right now.

But she was finding it hard to concentrate through the haze left behind by the revelation that her best friend might be evil.

She'd looked at it _every_ way imaginable. She'd brainstormed and justified and mapped out Rain's actions as far back as she could remember. Cassandra had turned one wall of her dormitory into a massive, sprawling picture she'd unimaginatively dubbed "The Diagram" in order to visualise every interaction she'd had with Rain, to try and overturn any clue as to why she might be innocent.

She'd come up with nothing.

Now, Cassandra Featherstone doesn't _fail._ She couldn't afford to fail, not when the stakes were so high. There _had_ to be something she was missing, something she'd overlooked. But over a dozen sleepless, and often tear-filled nights since her world had been rocked by the revelation were starting to suggest that there might just be nothing there to find.

She blinked her red-rimmed eyes, looking at the ring of books laid about her spot on the floor without actually seeing any of them. There was a scattering of other things, as well. Torn sheafs of parchment, covered in hastily-etched drawings; blurred photos; a portion of blue silk curtain ripped from her four-post bed. All were covered in a hasty rendition of Cassandra's handwriting. Tiny and cramped, spiderwebbing letters barely illegible, crowding margins and filling every inch of available space.

Her dorm-mates had finally tired of her _"eccentricities"_ they called it. Chloe Swann had led them in demanding that Cassandra remove the writing that was ruining their neatly-arranged living quarters. Cassandra had had no choice but to oblige, and so she'd taken notes on everything she'd written over the past two weeks in a fearful hour as the others of her dormitory tapped impatient feet and threatened to purge it all every time she paused to stretch her cramping hand.

There was one other thing with her tonight, as well. A small jewellery box that had been stuffed down the back of Cassandra's bed – next to the section of the Diagram about how Cassandra had never seen Rain use the bathroom on a Wednesday – she'd been getting desperate for clues, at that point.

The jewellery box was a gift from Rain, late last year. The day before she disappeared, in fact. Cassandra had been too scared to open it. She shamefully admitted to some lingering superstition, that if she never looked inside it, she might someday be reunited with Rain again. As if opening it was admitting that Rain was gone, looking upon its contents – jewellery that Rain would never wear again – was enough to seal her fate.

Cassandra's fingers shook as she reached for the box. It was simple, lacquered wood. It glowed a warm golden-brown in the dusky hue of the Waterfall room. Stylised raindrops were carved across the lid, and as Cassandra held it, she watched with a small, sad smile, as they came to life, dancing across the surface and making a scene of steady, driving rain. Grey-smudged and whirling. Simple, yet beautiful.

She popped the clasp.

Inside, there was no jewellery to be seen. The felt-lined interior was empty, untouched and pristine. Save for one, small square of parchment, folded tightly enough to fit within Cassandra's palm. It bore her name in a script that she would recognise anywhere as Rain's own.

 _Dearest Cassandra,_

 _I hope with all my heart that you may never see this note. I must thank you for being the most wonderful, caring friend for all these years-_

Cassandra led out a sob, clapping a hand to her mouth.

 _\- There may come a time that your faith in our friendship is shaken. That you find yourself thinking less of me for what it seems I have done. People may slander my name after I am gone, they may tell you such things that still your heart and chill your tender soul. You may even discover them yourself. Your insatiable thirst for understanding and knowledge was ever one of your most admirable traits._

 _But I beg of you, that before you cast final judgement over my memory, seek out James Potter. The gifts I have given to him, together, will help you to understand the truth. And I hope that it will allow you to retain fond thoughts of myself and, more importantly, us._

There was no signature. Cassandra found tears were flowing freely down her cheeks now. Relief warred with despair, each jostling to be the emotion to overcome her. The note was written as if – wherever she was going – Rain had no intention of returning.

But there was hope! Glorious, beautiful hope. She must have been referring to the Locket, telling them that it was the key. Cassandra's shoulders shook silently. Even she didn't know if she was laughing or crying.

She could toss the section of the Diagram – there had been an entire sideboard of her bed devoted to it – of James conspiring to make Cassandra believe Rain evil. Suddenly, it seemed so stupid. _Rain,_ trying to destroy the world? _Their_ Rain? She'd once made Cassandra stay awake with her for a whole night because she'd been _convinced_ that a Kelpie had swum up the drains into their bathroom and it was going to need their rescuing.

And so the hope shone through. And Cassandra Featherstone, alone in the room, and for the first time in weeks, began to laugh.

* * *

There was nothing within the confines of a Hogwarts classroom that could ever quite match the pell-mell furore of a group of students preparing for a potions class. Cauldrons were located, acquired, dropped to the floor with an ear-splitting clang, and sheepishly hurried over to desks. Scuffles broke out over the best-looking of the ingredients, all snatching hands and hissing curses. Fires were lit – often explosively. Stools ground across tiled floor. And on top of it all, the general chatter accompanying a group of thirty-odd fourteen-year-old children finished off the maelstrom of noise and confusion that marked the beginning of each and every lesson.

Not even the presence of Alabaster Shelby, Ministry stalwart and self-proclaimed Hogwarts Grand Overseer could dampen the mood. His cold eyes narrowed on the milling students, scanning through the crowd like fingers sifting through loose sand, every so often catching on something with the roughest of edges.

'Blimey, sorry Clip,' Fred muttered, patting out the last of the flames that had momentarily consumed the latter's sleeve.

'Bloody hell,' James Potter swore, as he watched the last of the water he was supposed to be adding to his cauldron run down across the tabletop to pool in between the pavestones on the floor.

'Oh, bothering heck,' growled an unusually distracted Cassandra Featherstone as she leaned over her table and accidentally creased one of the pages of her textbook.

Well, perhaps not _all_ were rough edges.

'Silence, class!' Professor Elise Ellfrick finally barked, once she had had enough of the turmoil. The simmering commotion gradually subdued, until only the odd shuffle and mutter remained. 'Today I have for you a test.'

The class groaned audibly.

'And, for the victor, a reward.'

Even James' own ears perked up a touch at that. He saw around him the students of Gryffindor and Ravenclaw house standing a little straighter, surreptitiously eyeing the competition on either side.

'Only a select few among you, however, will be selected to vie for the prize. To whittle out those who merely attend this class to socialise, I shall pose a question. One simple enough that any who have truly been paying attention over the past few weeks ought to know-'

' _Psst.'_

James turned to his right. On the table next to him, separated by a narrow walkway, Cassie was making a terrible attempt at subtly garnering his attention.

'Silence, Miss Featherstone, lest you lose more points for Ravenclaw.'

James shot Cassie a questioning gaze. She was looking at him very intensely, trying to convey some message that was entirely lost. He gave a helpless shrug in response.

'In which half of the Centaur,' Professor Ellfrick asked. 'Would one expect to find it's heart?'

James gave a glum sigh. He had no clue. What would one possibly use a centaur heart for, anyway? He was adamant that they hadn't covered it in classes, and he ought to know, as he'd actually been paying attention lately, ever since he returned from his suspension. He'd managed an "Exceeds Expectations" grade twice in the span of his few weeks back.

' _Psst.'_

This time Cassie didn't even try and make eye contact, she simply raised her hand, and scratched her side with two fingers.

'Miss Featherstone, _can I help you?'_ Professor Ellfrick's bark made Cassie physically jump.

'N-no, professor. Just an itch.'

But James had understood the gesture, and scribbled his answer down just in time before Professor Ellfrick summoned all of their sheets of parchment and sorted them into two piles. One was noticeably smaller than the other.

'Those who were correct,' the professor snapped in her short, clipped voice. 'Step forwards Mister Helstrom. Miss Featherstone. Mister Wallace. Mister Sameer. Miss Swann. And… Mister Potter?'

She couldn't hide the surprise in her voice at reading James' name. Fred nearly choked on the sweet he'd been chewing, slapping James on the back with an incredulous laugh. 'You jammy git,' he wheezed, sending Caspar and his cronies a healthy two-fingered salute for good measure.

The rest of you, pack up your things and move to the back of the class. You've twenty-six inches of parchment on the anatomy of the Centaur and the seventeen uses for its body parts, due next Tuesday.

There was a renewed moment of chaos, as those mentioned slipped to the back, while James and his chosen few relocated themselves at the front of the room.

Throughout it all, Alabaster Shelby scribbled furious notes, interspersed with some appreciative nods, and intense scrutiny of the students, particularly those left at the front of the class.

'Now,' Professor Ellfrick clapped her hands. The noise was like the bite of a whip. 'Today, you will brew a Dark-Piercing Decoction. This is an incredibly complex potion that grants the gift of night-vision for a short amount of time if brewed correctly. _However,_ any slight misstep in the process can lead to drastic and permanent affects on one's eyesight, including blindness. This is a lesson in attention to detail, and finesse. The winner may keep a small vial of the potion, brewed by myself, for use as they see fit. Let us discover if any of you are worthy of it.'

Her cold glance in James' direction indicated that she was fairly adamant at least _some_ of them wouldn't be.

But James was determined that he would prove her wrong. It had taken his mind less than three breaths to find a critical usefulness for this particular potion. He'd be damned if he let himself get dragged into those narrow, underground caves in the cliffs of the Forest again without being prepared.

He flipped the book open to the relevant page and read through the instructions twice before so much as reaching for a beaker.

Curiously, Cassie was as slow as he was to arrive at the ingredient cupboard. All of the quality ones were taken. James grimaced as he prodded at a rheumy-looking eye of lungfish, and the last few mantis hearts left looked misshapen and grey.

'James,' Cassie hissed from somewhere down near his elbow. She was barely even paying attention to her ingredients, and already had too much aspen bark on her scales. 'I really need-'

'There will be _no_ collusion during this exercise, Miss Featherstone,' Professor Ellfrick snapped. Cassie scowled in annoyance and hurried away, leaving James staring at her back, perplexed. What could be so important?

Back at his table, James added three drops of owl's blood to the freshly-simmering water in the cauldron. He stirred once clockwise, then impatiently counted the seconds on his watch. Twenty three, twenty four… Then two stirs counter-clockwise, whilst adding a sprinkling of powdered newt tail.

He was interrupted on his third repetition out of four by a sudden flurry of movement beside him, and something brushing up against his knees.

'Miss Featherstone, for the love of Merlin! If you want to spend your spare time on your knees under James Potter's desk, you're more than welcome. _But don't bloody do it in my class!'_

A thud as Cassie jumped in fright, smacking her head on the underside of James' table. It added fuel to the burgeoning laughter around the room. James' cheeks flushed. Cassie surfaced with a brilliant crimson shade colouring her pale features.

James shot her a pointed stare. She tried to mouth something to him, but it looked more like she was chewing on some really sour gum.

James got the impression that Cassie was _really_ bad at passing secret notes in class.

He turned back to his potion. The rest of the participants had a steady blue-grey smoke pouring from the tops of their cauldron, pooling above the ceiling and adding a misty air to the room. Its taste was acrid and sharp, and left the tongue feeling furry and numb. James' own cauldron was giving off little more than a feeble greyish puff every now and then. He hastily added the Mooncalf saliva and breathed a sigh of relief as his potion reluctantly joined in with the others.

Next came the boring part – watching the simmer for fifteen minutes, stirring only slightly to break up the green-blue congealed layer that would occasionally form on the surface. Struck by an idea, James produced a scrap of parchment from his bag, and scribbled a question upon it. When Professor Ellfrick was distracted by trying to butter up to Alabaster Shelby, he lobbed it across in Cassie's direction.

Unfortunately, her catching skills were about as honed as her note-passing ones. She snatched wildly at the note, fumbled it, and with a shocked little 'Ooh!' watched as it tumbled into her own bubbling cauldron.

Instantly, a small bonfire arose – startling in ferocity for the size of the source. Flames leapt up to lick the rafters, and a thick, black undertone mingled with the blue-grey haze, causing an instant round of coughing and choking. James knocked his book, along with a pile of ingredients off of his table as he stumbled back from the heat. He noticed Cassie had done the same, and she hurriedly collected the majority of them, thrusting the book back into his hands without meeting his eye.

'Miss Featherstone, that's _enough!_ What has gotten into you today? Fifteen points from Ravenclaw. And you are suspended from this exercise, immediately. You'll be lucky if you don't send half of us blind! Get to the back of the class. I want _six_ feet of parchment due by Tuesday on what you did wrong. Every single step. _Go!'_

Cassie squeaked and fled. James watched Professor Ellfrick work through a complex set of wand movements to banish the smoke and quell the blaze. With a start, he remembered his own potion, and hastily added a teaspoonful of melted Andean snow to cool the brew.

He re-opened his textbook, and frowned. _Wait a minute_ … this book was much too neat to be his own. Where were the torn pages, the bent spine? The games of hangman and Quidditch plans that he had doodled in the margins with Fred.

When he came upon the page for today's lesson, he saw a single cramped line of text jammed right in the bottom corner – as if written by someone trying to minimise the defacement of such a precious artefact: _Third floor classroom. After this. URGENT._

James chanced a look to the back of the room. Perhaps Cassie wasn't so bad at secret messages, after all.

When the time finally came for their potions to be judged, James was wiping sheets of sweat from his brow, and looking down at his cauldron with a critical eye. Thick, purple smoke spewed from it. It left him light-headed and vaguely hungry. Just as the book had said. Around the room, only three or four others could match the hue and ferocity of the smoke stream. He smiled to himself, and awaited Professor Ellfrick as she circled the room, commenting on each attempt in turn.

'Well done, as usual, Helstrom. I do hope you keep up with Potions come O.W.L and N.E.W.T years… This is adequate, Mister Wallace. That is all… Oh, excellent, Miss Swann. Truly, you never cease to amaze me.'

She hovered over James' own desk. His cauldron was smoking much stronger than Chloe Swann's.

'And what do you call this, Mister Potter? You're missing a third of your potion. You've clearly boiled it too long. The remains in here will be super-concentrated. The _best_ you could hope for from this would be to blind someone. A potion like this, you might well send them mad! I ought to put you in detention right now, but I can barely stomach the thought of your company for an extra hour.'

She swept off, Vanishing the contents of his cauldron as she did so. Only a thin, tatter of purple smoke was all that was left of his efforts.

The award went to Chloe Swann. A fact that made Cassie scowl even more than she already was.

Though it didn't bother James in the slightest. As the class piled out at the end of the lesson, James patted an interior pocket of his robes, sewn in to the hem and out of sight of all but the most fastidious of searchers. Within it, sat a vial full of rich, purple-blue liquid, thick as syrup, and still warm to touch. Just like the recipe had said it should be.


	30. Glass

The smoke that hovered around James' face stubbornly refused to dissipate as he hacked and spluttered and frantically waved to try and banish it. It was thick and cloying and acrid, and left his teeth feeling furry and his eyes watering.

'Should have known you'd rig the deck,' he coughed in Fred's direction. James could barely get a sentence out without threatening to hack up the entire contents of his stomach.

Fred's father had imparted upon him so many new _gifts,_ that not even a casual game of exploding snap was safe anymore.

'I call this set the Tonsil Ticklers,' Fred grinned, tapping the stack of cards, now neatly arrayed in front of him. They showed no sign of the scorch marks and smouldering remains that marred the floor between himself and James. 'I've also got the Eyeball Eviscerators and the Furious Farters – they let off this gas-'

'I get it,' James grumbled, speaking through the sleeve of his robe. That'd teach him for trying to get one over on Fred.

The door to their small, dingy room swung open, and a third figure joined them, though not before undergoing the ritual coughing and spluttering that James had just managed to shake off.

'Blimey, lads. What's _in_ that?' Tristan growled, pulling the collar of his jumper up to cover his nose and mouth. 'Open a window, why don't you?'

'There's none in here,' Fred told him with a shrug.

'Yea,' James shot back. 'Because _somebody_ loaded up every single bloody portrait in the castle so damned full of Hexes and Jinxes and tripwires that any time you enter a room with one, they all start screaming bloody murder. This mangy old closet was about the only room left.'

'At _your_ behest, might I remind you,' Fred shot back. ' _Prepare to bring the castle to it's knees,_ you said. _Use whatever means necessary,_ you said. Well, I did. So what if there are a few… inconveniences because of it. You've made your bed. Now you've got to eat it, too… or something. I'm no good with Muggle sayings.'

'Speaking of eating things in bed, gentlemen,' Tristan said with a smug grin, slipping down on to the bare stone floor next to James and chasing the last dregs of smoke out the door with a casual _Ventus_ spell. 'Hogwarts' most eligible fourth-year bachelor is now officially spoken for.'

Fred's eyebrows shot up. James smirked.

'Finally let Chloe Swann wear you down then?'

'No such thing.' Tristan shuddered. That was real fear in his eyes. 'You'll remember Alannis McLellan -'

'The girl that ditched Clip at the dance in third year?' Fred asked.

'The one who made a game out of getting as many boys' first kisses as possible behind Greenhouse three?' James added.

'Yes, well, the morals of the situation are, admittedly, somewhat complex,' Tristan waved off their concerns with no more than a flick of his wrist. 'But young Clip is more infatuated with our dear, oblivious Cassandra than a Niffler is with a Galleon. And there are two very important things about Alannis that you both must know.'

'I cannot wait to find out,' Fred remarked drily.

'If this is _anything_ about whips…' James warned.

'Nothing so crass!' Tristan laughed. 'Yet. But I digress. First of all, Alannis tells _everyone_ every little sordid detail of every relationship, fling, or snog-in-a-broom-closet that she's ever had. No exceptions. Secondly, and just as importantly, she once punched a Hufflepuff fifth-year girl who hooked up with a bloke she fancied over summer.'

'And I should be interested in this… why?' Fred asked.

But James had arrived at the conclusion already and shook his head with a knowing smile. 'So, you're finally admitting that Chloe Swann has gotten the better of you.'

'Nonsense!' Tristan huffed, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. 'I just know when to ask for help. Who better to know the mind of one crazy woman than another woman, equally as mad?'

'So… you're hoping Alannis punches Chloe in the face, and that she gets the message that she is _not_ still your girlfriend.'

'Well, not a _punch_ necessarily. More like a stern word, or three.'

'And just how cognizant is Alannis of this plan? That you've brought her in as muscle to clean up the dirty work that you're too chicken to do?'

Tristan held up his hands and plastered on his best innocent face. 'Technically speaking… not at all aware.'

'So, she fancies you, then?'

'Infatuated. Mind you, she'd have to be blind not to. Anyone would.'

James' bark of laughter was tinder-dry.

'A harsh lesson for Alannis, when she finds out,' Fred winced, packing his cards away and shaking his head.

'Harsh… or simply long-awaited justice for playing with young Clip's emotions so cruelly last year? A Hufflepuff's best trait is his loyalty. Don't ever let it be said that I don't have a brother's back.'

'Are you sure you're not secretly a Slytherin, deep down under there?' James laughed, leaning back against the bare wall behind him. He picked idly at a thread in the scuffed knee of his jeans. 'That's a _very_ Slytherin plan.'

'No such thing!' Tristan shrugged off the suggestion as if it had been offensive. 'I just happen to do my homework. It's all there in that book, you see.'

He gestured to the battered, faded corner of the copy of _Twelve Failsafe ways to Charm Witches_ protruding up from the corner of James' bag.

'Speaking of which, young Master Potter, how fares your own tale of poor decisions made in the name of love?'

James told them – albeit reluctantly – about his night upon the balcony with Odette and what had almost happened. What he'd knowingly walked away from.

They stammered and spluttered and choked – though this time it had nothing to do with the deck of rigged Exploding Snap cards. Fred's face was a mask of impressed incredulity, while Tristan didn't hesitate to whip out a sheet of parchment and a quill and jam them in front of James.

'Get the Book,' he whispered seriously. 'You need to take some notes, young rookie, before you are completely lost to us all.'

James rolled his eyes, but acquiesced. He'd replayed the scene a hundred times over in his head, but still didn't know whether he'd do it differently if faced with the decision again. How would he know if he was _ready?_

'Page two hundred and thirteen,' Tristan barked, rapping a finger on the battered, careworn cover. The embossed letters were beginning to peel, and more than a few pages were coming loose from their binding.

James flipped through the book, until he came to the chapter titled: "The End Game."

'Think I'd rather another round with the Atlanteans,' he muttered.

But he was mercifully spared a lecture from Tristan on this most sordid of subjects by the door to their cramped little room opening once more, and Kattala Lovegood striding in, forcing James to screw up his parchment and hastily stuff the Book back into his bag and out of her sight.

James still hadn't gotten used to the sight of her. She just didn't look like _Cat_ without her customary waist-long hair. James had apologised profusely for hexing it off during their latest Defence Against the Dark Arts practical, and Cat had been remarkably pragmatic about her acceptance. Her hair _had_ been trying to choke her into unconsciousness, after all. Nevertheless, James made sure he was extra polite whenever she was around.

'Evening, Cat. You're looking, er… tall, today.'

Truth was, though, that the incident had happened a week ago, and by this point he was running pretty low on compliments.

'Thank you, James. You are looking rather short.'

'That's because I'm sitting down.'

'Yes, I imagine that it is.'

Not for the first time, James wondered if there was some sort of joke that was flying over the top of his head, just out of reach of his comprehension. It certainly seemed that way, judging by the small private smile that quirked Cat's lips. She was twirling a lock of hair around one finger. She'd taken to toying with it incessantly, now that it was always right _there,_ sitting just off of her shoulders in a loose, wavy style sort of trying to be curls.

'Do you, erm, want a seat?' Fred offered uncertainly, shuffling up against the wall on his side and patting a spot on the floor between them no bigger than a sheet of parchment. Cat eyed it apprehensively.

'No, thank you. I was just looking for James.'

'How'd you find us?' James asked.

'Oh, students all through the three floors below you are busy choking on some sort of noxious gas. I thought you were probably the cause of it.'

'A fair guess,' James ceded.

'Oops,' Fred said.

'Professor Meadows wants you, James. She says the first of your "special lessons" are tonight. Well, in about four minutes, actually.'

'Shit,' James swore, leaping to his feet and snatching up his bag.

'Now, now,' Tristan chided mockingly. 'Watch that language. You're to learn to keep a lid on that anger, young man.'

James tossed the balled-up sheet of parchment at Tristan's head as a parting gift and bolted out the room and down the stairs behind Cat, down towards Professor Meadows' classroom. His eyes darted down to his watch with every other step. But he already knew that it was a race doomed to failure.

'You're late.'

This was the way that Professor Meadows greeted James as he slowly pried open the door and peeked his head around the corner. Cat squeaked and scurried off back towards the Gryffindor tower behind him. Some Gryffindor.

James took a tentative step into the room. It was dimly lit. The last of the day's light speared in through loosely-shuttered windows. Slanting rays illuminated the motes of dust drifting lazily, casually through. Zoe Meadows herself sat at her table, leaning back casually with her feet – one real and one wooden, crossed over one another upon her desk. She regarded James coolly as he approached.

'I didn't know this was even _on_ until ten minutes ago-'

 _Whump!_

A blow rocked through James' skull, like he'd just been swatted over the head with a large book. It rattled his teeth and left a lingering sting above his right ear.

'What was that for?'

 _Crack!_

A whiplash sound, and pain blossomed over James' other ear. He clapped a hand to it, doubled over and stopped his march toward the professor. That one had _stung._

'Watch your mouth, Potter.'

'I wasn't even _nnngh-'_

With an unsettling _squelch_ noise, James' tongue locked itself to the roof of his mouth, and though he grunted and wheezed at his professor, he could speak no more words in his defence.

'I don't remember asking you to speak.'

Professor Meadows uncrossed her legs, and lifted first her booted, regular foot and then her carved, decorated wooden one down to the floor. She leaned forward over her desk, so that her face came into a sliver of light. It shone beneath the golden rays, her blonde hair glowed a burnished yellow. Her brightly-painted lips were parted in a dismissive sort of snarl. As if something unsightly had just entered her presence.

James felt his anger rising. His head hurt in multiple places, his magically-stuck tongue was making it hard to breathe. His frustration in turn was driving him to take harsher, sharper breaths. An ache was beginning to develop in his chest.

He darted his right hand down towards the waistband of his jeans, going for his wand. Before his fingers had even brushed the polished wood, his arms snapped violently to his side. His wand leapt up of its own accord and drifted lazily over towards Professor Meadows.

James' scowl deepened. A quill on the Professor's desk started vibrating, disturbed by a non-existent breeze.

'Oh, _you're_ upset?' the Professor mocked. 'Little James Potter is angry? How tragic! Do you think I want to be here, Potter? Do you think I want to be wasting my time after hours by coaching your sorry arse to learn to hold your tongue? Well?'

Knowing full well that he couldn't say so much as a word, James could only glare daggers at Professor Meadows' haughty gaze. An inkwell began to rattle its way towards the edge of the desk.

'Children, Potter! That's who I ought to be dragging before me to discipline for fisticuffs. You're supposed to be a man. Not for the first time, I'm disappointed.'

James was clenching his fists so hard that he felt his nails cutting in to the soft flesh of his palms. A stack of parchment that Professor Meadows had been marking became caught in a breeze, sheets skipping off to whirl and flutter around them, making them the calm eye to a rustling vortex.

'Are you simply inept, James Potter? Do you lack the mental capacity to control yourself, is that what it is? What would your father think-?'

 _Crash!_

The inkwell shattered. The quill caught fire and raged bright with blue-tinged flames. The parchment that had been whirling around them flashed out to plaster walls, tables desks, the roof. James felt some barrier _shatter_ before him, and suddenly he could speak.

'Don't you _dare-!'_

 _Bang!_

Professor Meadows, quicker than a flash, redrew her wand and silenced James again. But this time, her features had softened. This time, the aloof dismissal was replaced by something warmer, calming, almost caring.

'That was too easy, James,' she whispered, pushing herself to her feet. She winced as her weight shifted onto her wooden leg.

She ambled around the desk towards him. James followed her with his eyes, his face a mask of confusion.

'You can't allow yourself to get carried away like that. Your anger is so violent. But it is not a gift. It clouds your thoughts. It makes you slow to react. It makes you predictable, James. And that is something you must never be.'

She lay a hand on his shoulder, and James could feel the heat sapping from his body. Charred embers were all that remained of the Professor's quill. They smouldered softly, the anger of the flames but a distant memory.

'A truly powerful wizard, James, possesses a calm mind, a serene mind. A well-protected mind. You will be none of those things if you are only consumed by rage. Magic takes concentration. All of it. You muddy the waters of clarity when you let anger take over. This is why you must cut it out.'

She reached down and took both of his hands in hers. James felt the rough calluses of her palms hidden behind that perfectly-manicured mask of bright pink nails and glittering rings. Zoe Meadows was never what she appeared.

'It's just so… so easy,' James fumbled for words. He met the professor's gaze for one sheepish second, before his eyes skittered away again. 'It comes so quickly. Like it's always there, just waiting for the moment to slip in and take over.'

'Your father carried a piece of Voldemort within him for years,' Professor Meadows explained, dropping James' hand and levering herself up to sit atop her desk. She swung her legs back and forth in an almost childish manner as she explained such adult things. 'That is a scar that may never truly heal. It not impossible that an echo of that wound was passed down to you, as his first-born son. Such is the way, with magic. It is not only the good traits that we inherit from our forebears. Tell me, James. Can you speak to snakes?'

'Erm, I've never tried.'

'Good. Don't. Regardless, we will teach you to control the part of you that wants to submit to the anger. I feel that you will need it in the years to come, James Potter, the way trouble stalks so closely in your shadow.'

'We?'

'I told you, did I not, that this would be a joint exercise?'

Professor Longbottom strode in to the room. His long, dark robe swirled around him. His usually-cheery features were dark and austere. His gaze was fierce. He walked with all the authority of the leader of the boldest house of Hogwarts.

James kept his mouth shut, in case he was due to undergo a similar treatment again.

'You may speak, James, if you have something worthwhile to say. My methods are a little less… direct than Miss Meadows''

'What's this all about, sir?' James blurted out.

'Wrong question,' Professor Longbottom replied with a wry smile.

It seemed that James had missed his one opportunity to speak. His mind – already reeling – struggled to piece together what he ought to have said in that one moment. He had no idea how goading him until he lost control of his magic was going to help him keep calm in the face of Caspar's jeering taunts, let alone the heat of a real duel.

Professor Longbottom fished around inside an inner pocket of his robe. From it, he produced what looked to James to be a small square of plain glass. He set it down atop Zoe Meadows' desk, and the Defence Professor scooted clear and made her way back around to lounge in her seat, studying James with a heavy-lidded gaze.

'This is a Scryer's Window,' Professor Longbottom answered James' unasked question. 'It can – for the truly adept – depict a scene straight from the mind of the Scryer who controls it. The scene of a closely guarded treasure hoard; a companion traveling far away; the destination to any journey. You get the picture. Neither you, nor I, nor probably anybody in this castle could manage anything close to that, however.

'All I want you to do, is imagine a triangle. Any sort of triangle. An inanimate, abstract object is the easiest thing to Scry. Most wizards can manage it first time. Imagine your triangle, concentrate on it until it's existence fills your mind entirely, and then it shall appear on this glass, just as it does in your mind.'

James looked back and forth between the professor and the innocuous pane of glass, softly reflecting the warm glow of the setting sun which lit the room. It looked decidedly mundane to James. The thought skittered across his mind that this might be some kind of trick. A useless task meant to frustrate him.

He voiced that opinion, and Professor Longbottom actually smiled. Professor Meadows gave a bark of mirthless laughter.

'No, James. Although you can't yet see it, there is a reason behind what we are doing here. We're not here to waist your time as well as ours. Now begin.'

James gazed down at the square of glass. It could comfortably have fit in the palm of his hand. It sat flat upon the table, distorting his view of the desktop beneath in a mind-bending way. It sent the grains contorting and twisting into imaginary knots and whorls that trapped his gaze and made a blurry, chaotic pattern march across the surface of the glass for half a heartbeat.

The shock of that – the fact that it actually _worked_ – shattered James' concentration and the image fizzled. He gazed up at both professors. They returned equally flat stares.

James focused on his triangle. He imaged one that filled up the entirety of the Scryer's Window. Each apex touched one edge of the glass. He attempted to empty everything else from his mind, scrunching up his eyes as he focused. Slowly, blurry lines began to shimmer into existence on the pane-

'Focus, James!'

Professor' Longbottom's barked command was loud enough to make him – and even Professor Meadows – jump. His image winked out, and he glared up at his head of house.

'I was nearly there!'

'Doesn't look that way to me.'

The glass was back to reflecting flickering torchlight, glinting back mockingly to James' eye.

Again, he tried. He narrowed his vision until that little square surface was all that he could see. Again, the hazy, wobbly lines began to form. Sluggishly, reluctantly, they began to take shape-

'Not good enough!'

His concentration shattered again. A dark thunderhead spread across James' visage as he glared at the Professor. He opened his mouth to speak, but Zoe Meadows got there first.

'Try it, Potter. I dare you.'

He teeth snapped shut with an audible _click._ His grip on the edge of the table was fierce enough to show the veins and tendons standing proud in the back of his hands. He returned his gaze to the glass once more, this time, prepared.

'This is pathetic!' Professor Longbottom barked.

But James was ready. His shape wavered, but held.

'We don't have all evening!'

Three vertices were beginning to separate themselves from the wonky circle he'd so far managed. He could _feel_ the Scryer's Window bending to his will, as his triangle took shape.

'You're a disappointment!'

Almost a triangle in truth, now. _To the sides,_ James urged. Pushing out each point towards the edge. The shape was pallid and feeble, but it was there. He willed it further, larger, to touch each side of the glass, just as he'd imagined. Nearly, just a centimetre more…

'You'll never play Quidditch again, you know.'

Zoe Meadow's casual drawl was laced with the apathetic indifference she had been showing from the moment James' entered the room. The cool disregard. The casual dismissal of his very existence. And with it, she cut straight through to one of James' deepest fears.

His triangle shattered. The glass leapt up an inch clear of the desk, as if hit with a kind of physical recoil. James shot his filthiest look in her direction. To which she only shrugged.

'I think that's enough for one night, then,' Professor Longbottom spoke softly into the tense silence.

He pocketed the Scryer's Window, and laid a hand on James' shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. The heat from his gaze had dissipated, and he even offered James a quick smile before he turned on his heel and left. But still, no explanation.

Professor Meadows was a little less frosty in her dismissal, and dropped her frosty airs to offer him a genuine grin and a look that wasn't quite pity.

'One day you'll realise this is for your own good. We don't hate you, James. I promise.'

'Then you're pretty damned good actors,' he grumbled back.

'Well, maybe there's a _little_ revenge in it, for all those times you and Fred Weasley made something explode in my classroom. And that one time you let a toad loose after hours. You _know_ I hate toads.'

James could only shake his head as she shooed him towards the door. He marched back up to the Gryffindor common room, alone save for his thoughts and the nagging sensation that he had just been something of a colossal failure.

Fred and Clip were still up when he returned. Clip was busy annihilating Fred at Wizard's chess. He hadn't even lost a single piece. James wasn't sure Fred even really knew the rules. His suspicions were confirmed when Fred tried to convince his knight to gallop all the way across the board and start jousting with one of Clip's own pieces.

James treated them to a hearty helping of complaints about his so-called _Anger Reduction Self-Easement_ training. He'd sure left the room feeling like an arse.

'Sounds mental,' Fred unhelpfully offered. 'Professor Longbottom's had a Billywig up his trousers ever since the Ministry lot showed up. Can hardly say hello to him in the corridor now without losing house points.'

'That's because last time you went to shake his hand you tried to chain him to a suit of armour with a pair of Ever-Latching Handcuffs,' James patiently explained.

'Yeah,' Fred replied. 'Like I said, he's a real square, these days.'

Clip, on the other hand, had gone quiet since James had described the lessons. He spoke for the first time, distractedly shifting one of his bishops into a terrible position that threatened – bizarrely – to swing the game in Fred's favour.

'So, they were trying to get you to focus on that triangle, while they distracted you constantly?' he asked.

James nodded. 'Or they simply hurled abuse at me until I just about burned the room down.'

Clip was looking embarrassed all of a sudden. 'Well, I've been doing some reading lately, and I came across… not because I thought _I_ could – but, well, I was just interested, you see. Not for me, of course… and well, James, I think it sounds like what they were doing to you… calming your mind and controlling your anger like that… it's the way they teach trainee Aurors the skill of… of Occlumency.


	31. Shimmer

_A/N: Work is crazy, so update schedule is shot to bits. Will have another chapter out this coming weekend. Strap in, boys and girls. We're not far away from diving headfirst into the end-game of Book Four._

* * *

The remnants of the fire that smouldered in the Gryffindor common room grate provided a much-needed warmth to the two figures inhabiting the room. The few glowing embers were buried deep beneath thick layers of ash, but the radiating, pulsating heat that they emanated still burned with anger. Disgruntled with the death of their attendant flames, the coals pored forth a stubborn sort of heat, defiant despite their inevitable slip into similar demise.

The two figures spoke little, stirring the ashes of a dormant conversation that had flickered out of existence long ago. Instead, a stifling air of anticipation hung thick and cloying over both of them.

'Do you ever wonder if Death is real?' James Potter asked, visibly mustering himself to end the stagnation.

He was toying with the edges of a cloak that seemed to be spun of liquid quicksilver. Seated on the floor next to him, her head on his shoulder and her eyes on the fireplace, his companion stirred.

'Of course, it is,' Kattala Lovegood answered, clearly unfocused. 'Why else was Voldemort so scared of it? He must've known something we didn't.'

'I don't mean just death. I mean _Death.'_ James emphasised the capital. 'Like the figure from the legends. As in an actual person. Or not-person. Whatever he is.'

'Some kind of Reaper of Souls? Who knows. Maybe Voldemort met him. Maybe that's why he was so afraid to die. Maybe, after all the people he killed, Voldemort himself was called on to take the Cloak and Scythe.'

James shuddered, despite the warmth. An unpleasant thought, that.

Cat stretched, lifting her head and arching her back. She picked up a corner of the Cloak that pooled on their collective laps and started running it through her fingers, watching it gather like thick smoke in the palm of one hand. The amber light of the dying fire reflected in her wide, pale eyes.

'I just wonder,' James ventured again. 'About this Cloak. It's one of a kind. Could it _really_ be a piece of Death's cape, or is that just a tale for children?'

'What _I'm_ more concerned about,' Fred Weasley interjected, striding in to the room and stopping to stand over them, next to the hearth. 'Is how it _knows_ when it's being worn. All silvery one minute, and then – _poof_ – invisible legs the next.'

James looked between the smoky, mercurial folds of cloak trailing between Cat's fingers, and then down to the spot where his and Cat's legs ought to have been. There appeared to be nothing but carpet. All the way down to where her blue-painted toes poked out the other end.

'Always asking the big questions,' James muttered, vexed that his line of questioning had been derailed.

Fred flashed a grin. 'The way's clear. Best go now, I think.'

James turned to Cat and offered a hand. 'Shall we?'

He helped her up, and then managed – barely – to fold the pair of them up sufficiently to fit beneath his father's Invisibility Cloak without trailing any of the corners in the fireplace. With Fred's help, they slipped through the portrait hole undetected and off, down through the castle, James' trainers and Cat's bare feet padding silently on the carpeted rugs that ran the lengths of the main corridors and aided in their stealthy passage.

They picked up Tristan Macmillan from a secluded nook near the entrance to the kitchens. He bundled himself in beneath the cloak and forced the three of them into even tighter proximity. Although it was only a quarter of the length it used to be, James still somehow ended up with a mouthful of Cat's hair in the effort.

From there, they ghosted through the castle and out across the grounds, where they afforded themselves a little more breathing room, and a careful observer might have seen the flash of an ankle or six flickering in and out of existence through grass still slicked from a recent downpour, and on down towards the shuttered lights of Hagrid's hut near the boundary of the Forbidden Forest.

Hidden beneath the Cloak, a certain Locket hummed softly against James' chest, to a tune that he could only describe as eager.

'In yer come, in yer come,' Hagrid rumbled when the scratch at his door announced the group's arrival.

The three of them piled in, tumbling through in a flutter of fabric and a tangle of limbs. Even the close, stuffy air of Hagrid's hut was better than the stale breaths he'd been forced to take under that Cloak.

'Take a seat, go on,' Hagrid offered, gesturing across the cramped space in a motion that took in his dining room, bedroom, kitchen and living area all in one.

They all three piled in to Hagrid's sole armchair together. As usual, Cat was all elbows and knees and pointy edges.

'Yer weren't followed?' Hagrid asked, passing around great steaming mugs of tea that they each had to nurse with two hands. There was something grey and slightly lumpy beginning to congeal on the surface of James'.

'Not that we could make out,' James replied. 'We had the Cloak the whole way. Only chance would be if someone was watching Tristan.

'Not a chance,' Tristan assured them. 'Alannis and I were up to a few things that no watcher in their right mind would want to see in the corner of that corridor.'

'Really throwing yourself into this "get rid of Chloe Swann" thing, aren't you?' James smiled.

'Desperately. Just last week I found a box of chocolates tucked under my pillow. _How did she even get in there?'_

'Alright, enough chatter, then,' Hagrid chuckled, shaking his head. 'There'll be no Harry tonight. Can't have him sneaking on to castle grounds every other week, what with the Ministry crawling all over the place. It would start to raise suspicions. But he sends his best. Wants us to get cracking on a plan to catch us a monster. Won't say how he knows, but he's a feeling that we're runnin' out o' time.'

'Has he heard what's happening to Renshaw?' James asked earnestly.

'Only that she's still bein' held. But he don't know where. He thinks that there's some connection between the headmistress and that crazy old bat from Beauxbatons, the one who usurped Olympe. Had no right ter do that, I told her. No right…'

James had the feeling that Hagrid was moments away from a lengthy distraction.

'What kind of connection?' he asked. 'Were they friends? Did they go to school together?'

Just last year, he'd overheard… well, he didn't know quite _what_ he'd overheard. But it was certainly suggestive of a dark past linking Headmistress Renshaw and Valerie Dufour. And perhaps even Egil Beck, the head of Durmstrang Institute. What had Renshaw done that Dufour wanted so desperately to hide?

James' conviction that there was something more to this story was growing by the day.

'Now, I don't know,' Hagrid told them, taking a sip from his own mug. James hadn't so much as touched the brew in front of him. 'And if yer father has found anythin' out, he hasn't shared it with me. But that's not the reason we're here. We've a monster to catch. James, I want you ter tell us everything you saw when you were taken. Everything you can remember.'

'Yea,' Tristan added. 'Right up to the point where you crawled up out of that hidey-hole half dead and with a hole in your shoulder big enough to hide a Bludger in.'

James recounted every memory that he could dredge up from that fraught and frantic night. The shape of the monsters, the size of their claws – a fact with which James was achingly familiar – the network of caves in which they hid, the way they fought, the terror of their cry, and, importantly, the fear they showed upon being faced with Rain's locket.

Nobody liked the idea of having to deal with two of the monsters. For there had been _at least_ two of them that James had encountered.

'Just bloody brilliant,' Tristan swore.

'Perhaps they're a couple,' Cat postulated. 'You know, like a breeding pair.'

'Cat, that's a terrifying idea. Why would you even say that?'

Cat put her empty mug down indignantly. 'Well, perhaps the monsters want to be happy, too.'

Tristan shook his head, incredulous. James had noted Cat's tongue had turned orange. He carefully set his own untouched mug down on the table and left it well alone.

'Did your mother find out anything about them?' James asked, sidestepping what was bound to be a ridiculous argument between she and Tristan. 'Where they're from, what they're called, what in Merlins name they _are,_ perhaps.'

Cat shifted in the chair next to James. Her short blond hair swung as she shook her head. 'Mummy has never heard of them before. Ever.'

'So they must be rare, if Luna Lovegood, esteemed Magizoologist and rare Fauna researcher has never heard of them,' Tristan added.

'Not rare,' Cat explained. 'Impossible. They don't exist.'

'Now I'd wager young James has a few nasty scars that would suggest otherwise,' Hagrid interjected.

James frowned, and ran a hand through his hair in vexation. Cat, Tristan and Hagrid together knew more about magical creatures than anybody else in the whole of Hogwarts. And if none of them knew what these monsters were…

'Cat, do you mean that they're not… not from _here?'_

Cat nodded vigorously. Her eyes were wide and very serious.

'How do you mean?' Tristan ventured with trepidation.

'Well, I think that they're from the same place that the Atlanteans are from,' Cat explained. 'It's why they keep taking their dead offerings to the same spot near the lake, where we fought the Atlanteans in second year. I think… I think they might have been their pets.'

'Blimey,' Hagrid rumbled. 'And I though _I_ was the one who kept strange pets about.'

'So…' Tristan began, looking a touch green. 'You're saying these things are from a different _world?'_

'Maybe…' Cat said. 'Or, at least, a different _part_ of a world, wherever they were locked away, before the Atlanteans were released.'

James didn't what to think too hard about just _who_ might have released them.

'Blimey. Just how many different worlds are out there?'

'Maybe none,' Cat told him. 'But Mummy has a theory. She has been researching animals since she left school. And she found out that each magical creature has its own sort of magical… fingerprint, I suppose. A magical mark that makes them individual. A make-up of magical powers that varies between every single one, no matter how alike. This make-up is passed down from their parents, and their parents before them. And so on, all the way back to the beginning of forever.'

'I'm following…' Tristan said. James nodded along. He was barely clinging on.

'Mummy says that humans have something similar. And theirs flows into the past like a backwards river, with all of the little streams, the branches that are our families, flowing back to one place, one source. It's a Muggle science, it's confusing, but Mummy says its real.

'She also says, that no matter how hard she's looked, and no matter how many magical creatures that she studies, she finds the same thing: that their magical fingerprint flows back up the river for a short time only, and then it stops. The end. Poof. There is no source, no convergence. No coming together like the Muggles say. There suddenly just _was_ magical creatures.'

'So what you're saying,' Tristan spoke slowly, deliberately. There was a confused look on his face, as if he had to physically strain to manifest the brain power to follow what Cat said. 'Is that all magical creatures didn't come from our world?'

James shot Tristan an impressed look. He thought he'd been following along just fine, but he'd been nowhere near managing to reach _that_ conclusion. He'd got a little lost somewhere around the backwards rivers.

'Maybe,' Cat shrugged. 'Maybe they all came at once, maybe they came bit by bit. Maybe these monsters are just the most recent ones to appear, and we are the first to discover them. Or maybe Mummy is completely wrong about all of it. That's what people keep telling her.'

'This is all well and good, dear Kattala. But it doesn't _quite_ help us with the wee problem of catchin' one.'

Hagrid's eyes had promptly began to glaze over not long after Cat started delving into the esoteric.

James smiled. Finally, a bit of pragmatism injected into the whole affair. Something that he could get behind.

'I'm sure by now that all of you are painfully familiar with Fred's latest prized possession, his 'sploders. Here's what I reckon we should do…'

Beneath his jumper, the locket, which had been vibrating softly all through the session, suddenly froze. There was no way that James could mistake it as anything other than anticipation. The emotion was so _human._

He began to speak slowly, and watched as eyes lit up, and a slow warmth spread out from the centre of his chest as his plan was accepted by all.

They spoke long into the night, ironing out creases, assigning tasks, double- and triple-checking that there was nothing they'd overlooked. By the time all four were satisfied, James was bleary-eyed and drowsy. He'd even slipped up once and had a sip of Hagrid's dubious "tea". It hadn't been half bad.

They bade Hagrid farewell and made the march back up to the castle among waves of yawns and a sea of bobbing, droopy heads. The wet grass underfoot allowed a hushed, whispering passage, and in no time at all they were slipping in through the door to the Entrance Hall, undetected. James and Cat dropped Tristan off at the Hufflepuff common room, and then made their way up towards their own beds.

But at the portrait hole, James paused, and told Cat to go on ahead.

'I've one last job to see to, tonight,' he whispered.

Cat nodded solemnly. 'Be safe, James,' she shot back, and gave his hand a squeeze before disappearing through the portal and off up to bed, padding through the common room like a ghost in her bare feet.

* * *

They'd taken an _age_ to return from their little errand. Caspar Helstrom had been about to give up waiting and head back to bed. But when, not long after two o'clock, the door to the Entrance Hall glided open on well-oiled hinges, he sat bolt upright within the shadowed nook he occupied, and fixed his gaze upon the small crack in the door, trying to make out any hint of a figure against the sliver of darkness outside.

Nothing. Whatever magic Potter possessed – for Caspar well knew it would be Potter snooping around this late – it was powerful enough to avoid detection. A Disillusionment charm was all that Caspar could think of, but that was well beyond their years of study. There was no way, surely…

What was that? There, on the flagstones, as the door swung shut. Footsteps. Three pairs, still wet from the ground outside. Caspar could have leapt with glee. He elbowed Dannil Pyke in the ribs to rouse him and gestured for his friend and accomplice to keep quiet.

Together, they followed the footsteps, first down, towards the Hufflepuff dormitory – that would be Macmillan. That loud-mouthed lad thought he was far tougher than he really was. If he wasn't so busy hiding in Potter's shadow, Caspar would teach him a thing or two…

But not tonight. There were higher stakes at play. The hunt continued. Upwards now, Caspar could guess at where his quarry was headed. And though their damp footsteps faded, the two of them who remained were tired, and that made them sloppy.

Sneakers flashed, and bared feet – ankles, feminine. Lovegood's, certainly. That family had been intertwined with the Potter's like a fraying knot for far too long.

They were set to pounce when the portrait swung open. But Caspar signalled the halt as he realised that Potter remained behind. He saw him disappear once more. Beneath some sort of veil?

This was the prize that they were after. Caspar signalled to Dannil that they stay in pursuit. He'd pay dearly to know just what Potter was up to, this late at night.

* * *

James was still rubbing sleep from his eyes when he slipped into the room in which he and Cassie had agreed to meet. He shed the Cloak the moment the door clicked shut behind him. The air in the room was warm, thanks to a small bluebell fire that Cassie had crackling merrily away in the middle of the flagstone floor. It cast an eerie cold light, and made shadows that seemed too alive to be real.

In the centre of the room, Cassie herself sat with her legs crossed neatly, gently feeding sprigs of herbs into the hungry flames from a series of piles arranged about her person. The effect was a spicy, heady aroma that stung James' nose but focused his mind, prying away the alluring, enticing embrace of sleep that threatened to ensnare him.

'What is it?' he asked Cassie, settling down onto the floor across from her. He held his palms out to the flames, but strangely felt no warmth.

'A few herbs meant to sharpen the senses and focus the mind,' Cassie explained. 'It's a bit of a woolly branch of magic, and I don't fully subscribe to it, of course. But it was something to pass the time.'

'Smells a bit like… burning hair?' James crinkled his nose.

'That's because the sleeve of your robe is on fire.'

So it was. But only slightly. James allowed Cassie to put it out with a well-placed _Aguamenti_ and suffered through her withering look as penance.

'It's been a long night, okay?' he shrugged.

'We can't afford to be sloppy now. Are you sure you're ready?' Cassie asked. She bit her lower lip. James could see that her hands were shaking in anticipation.

He lifted the Locket gingerly over his head and placed it down between them. Reflections of the clear blue flames licked up and down its faceted crystal surface. It ate the glow up hungrily.

'I think we should focus on the letter from Rain,' Cassie whispered, reaching out tentatively to stroke the sapphire. Her nails were painfully short, but they'd been freshly painted. A rich, Ravenclaw blue. 'I've been doing some reading, and it's possible that we may be able to influence what the Locket shows us, by focusing on what we want to see in our mind.'

'So what exactly do you think we should focus on?' James had approximately three thousand questions running through his mind that he'd like answered.

'Well, I've given the topic some thought,' Cassie began. Of course she had. 'And I think there are two key things we need to verify: the information that Rain gave us, or specifically you, to prove her innocence; and her current location. If… if she is still alive.'

Cassie's voice trailed off, and James reached across the flames – mindful not to set his sleeve alight again – and laid a hand on her shoulder.

'She will be, Cassie. I know it. I can feel it.'

'Is this more of that trust on blind faith, James Potter?'

'There was always a weird sort of bond between us, you saw it. I think… I'd know if she was gone.'

James wasn't sure of that at all. But sometimes, a little white lie could do more good than harm.

'Right. Well, then,' Cassie muttered, fishing in her bag for supplies.

She produced a small jar of greasy ash, a vial filled with something powdery and white and another with a thimbleful of a rich, red liquid. All three she mixed together, then began tracing patterns on the floor, centred on her bluebell flame. They were tighter, neater and less complex than the first time she'd tried this, indicating her growing skill at the craft. Soon, she was done and extinguished the flames with a graceful wave of her wand. James placed the Locket carefully into the centre of the small scuff that they'd left behind.

They both stood, one either side of the diagram. 'Shall we?' James asked, holding out a hand.

Cassie smiled and reached out to take it. Then, together, they took a step forward, towards the centre of the diagram. James jabbed his wand at the locket and with a blinding flash, the room disappeared from around them.

They were still in Hogwarts. That much was clear to James before he'd even fully recovered his bearings. He blinked rapidly, trying to dispel the flare of light that left his eyes dazed and stinging. The corridor was familiar… fifth floor. A link between the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor towers. Long, straight and narrow, it was lined with life-sized portraits showing great witches from either house. Gryffindor on the left, and Ravenclaw on the right. Fred often enjoyed coming down here and goading the portraits into a shouting match of one-uppery, with both sides trying to prove whose house was superior.

Today, though, there was no such frivolity. Dozens of students flowed through the corridor, sporting the Ravenclaw blue, or the Gryffindor red-gold as trim to the domineering Hogwarts black. A few unfamiliar faces wore the pale, shimmery greys of Durmstrang, or the eggshell blue shades of Beauxbatons Academy. James peeked outside one of the few windows they saw. Far below, on the castle grounds, a great stage was set up, with stands piled high up either side. Hundreds of students swarmed all over it already, like tiny insects from this height.

It was _that_ day, then. The end of their third year. When all hell had descended upon the castle. At this very moment, James himself would be creeping down to the bowels of the dungeon, investigating the door that leaked a fetid mist reeking of appalling power into very heart of the castle.

Cassie squeezed James' hand and his eyes spun to face forwards. She'd seen it, a glimpse of that hair. That blushing blonde hue, that red-gold which could not be mistaken. They were mere minutes away from starting the duels below, but Rain was heading in the opposite direction to the crowds.

They followed her without really trying, the memory, or vision, or whatever it really was, dragged them along in Rain's wake. She kept her head down and steps were hurried. She was clutching something against her chest, though the memory seemed resistant to James positioning himself to get a good look at what it was.

His heart skipped as she turned up an even more familiar staircase, and his suspicions were confirmed when she stopped outside the portrait of the Fat Lady. She gave the password without hesitation – James had probably been the one who told her – and glided up over the threshold as if she were entering her own living room.

No denizens of the house were left to question her passing. Her timing had been exquisite – everyone was down below waiting for the action to start – though start it would not, without her present. Up she went, though by now, James was certain he knew where she was going.

She arrived at his dormitory, and he was not at all surprised when she strode purposefully over to his bed. She seemed to know it despite never having set foot in this room before.

'Have you ever made a bed in your life?' Cassie hissed beside him.

James smiled sheepishly down at her, but he was distracted. His eyes were fixed on Rain.

She bent down, and tucked something beneath his pillow, so that just an edge was peeking out. A small, dark shape. He _still_ couldn't make out what it was. Was this memory _real?_ He'd found no such thing. Suddenly, his blood froze. Had someone found it before him? Had someone _else_ known about her?

For the first time in the vision, Rain turned around, bringing herself face to face with James and Cassie, so close that they could have reached out and touched her. James gasped as he saw a single tear track down her cheek. His free hand twitched, where it lay at his side, though he knew he could do nothing, here in this trapped echo of time.

But his heart shuddered as Rain took a deep breath and whispered, so close, so private, that it was as if she knew he was watching. 'Save me, James Potter.'

Then the memory shattered with the ear-splitting sound of breaking glass.

All around them, fragments of the scene fell away, leaving only blackness in their wake. James tried to look down at Cassie, but could barely see her. The fierce grip of her hand, hot and clammy and slicked with sweat, was the only bond between them.

Slowly, blurred shapes coalesced, and quelled James' fear that they'd been sucked into some kind of bottomless void. He made out sounds, the steady drip, drip of water. The skittering of a tiny bug. What sounded like a trolley being pushed by outside an unseen door.

And there, in the corner of the room – what James suddenly understood was a cell – was _Rain_.

She was little more than a hazy blur among the oppressive darkness, but James could still tell that she looked tiny. She was curled up, asleep. James could hear her breath sighing softly into the stillness of the room. Her limbs were thin and frail, curled up around her body in a protective position. The skin of her face was gaunt and stretched. Her fingernails bled, her lips were chapped and dry. Deep bruises, and partly-healed cuts marred her wrists and ankles. One eye looked to be swollen shut.

But she was alive!

For James was certain – without knowing why – that this was no longer a memory, that this was _now._ And by the way Cassie was giving off tiny sobs of joy beside him, she, too, felt the same.

'James Potter, is that you?'

He jumped. Cassie squealed.

Her voice. A thin, stretched-out version of her usual husky tones, but it was the most beautiful thing he could have imagined. 'Rain, we're here! Where are you? Tell us who has you? Where have they taken you?'

'Is this… is this real? Not another cruel dream, sent to taunt me?'

Her voice was filling their minds, though before them, curled on her tiny little cot, Rain's body still slumbered.

'No, Rain, it's us. We're really here. The Locket-'

'May have saved my life a second time, it seems.'

'Tell us where you are, Rain. What is this place?'

'My body sleeps. It is all I have the strength to do. Soon, I will be dragged out, and they will try again.'

'Try what, Rain? Who will take you?'

'Is it funny, do you think, that they didn't know what they were doing, at first? That all they were going on was a sort of inkling? "Here is a girl we find dangerous and mysterious" they said. "Now find out why we should think that". But, through their fumbling, they have stumbled on to the truth.'

She wasn't making much sense. James worried that her brain had been addled. Had she been tortured? He'd heard stories, and those marks on her wrists…

'Who, Rain? Who found out?'

'And now they want to continue, anyway. Even though they know the price. They want to do it, James. But you can't let them. Please, promise me you won't let them!'

Her voice became frantic and tearful in James' mind. Her body twitched and writhed before them, her face contorting in anguish.

'I promise Rain. But you need to tell me _who.'_

'They want to release her. They want to unpick me, to pull me apart. But is such a thing even possible? Not even I know where _she_ ends and I begin. I think… I think that if they succeed, that it will kill me. After all, I'm not sure how much of _me_ is left. Sometimes I don't even know if there was even any _me_ to begin with, or if I was always simply _her,_ but without all of the pieces in place _._ Don't let them free her, James. She'll kill us. All of us. She- _I_ have done it a thousand times before. Please James…'

Rain's voiced trailed off into indistinguishable sobs. James ached to reached out and put his arms around her, but he knew he could do nothing in such a vision as this.

Suddenly, a low grinding filled his ears, and the world shook, as if by a violent earthquake.

'Is that them, Rain? Are they coming for you? Let me see them. We need to know-'

'Nothing happened on my side, James Potter. Anything you heard has come from yourself.'

Another groan nearly threw James to his feet. Cassie clutched his arm. 'Someone's coming!' she hissed. James nodded. He'd felt it, too.

'Run, James Potter. Return and hide! I must see you again.'

'Rain, tell us where you are, quickly!'

'Go, now! You can return, but not if you are caught!'

'Rain-!' James' outstretched arm clutched thin air, as he and Cassie collapsed in a heap on the floor of the abandoned classroom they'd left. Next to Rain's freezing cell, it felt like a sweltering furnace.

'James!" Cassie squeaked. Footsteps, and low voices just outside the door.

James lunged for the Cloak, where he'd cast it aside upon entering. Cassie dove for the Locket, and jabbed her wand with a hissed ' _Evanesco!'_ Feeling his fingers clutch fabric, James slid back, bundled up Cassie and threw the Cloak over the pair of them, rolling to the side of the room just in time for the door to open and none other than Caspar Helstrom appear from behind it.

'I'm telling you, we lost him after the Gryffindor tower…' the voice of a second figure materialised into Dannil Pyke. Silence took both boys as they entered the room. Both had their wands drawn.

'He's in here,' Caspar spat, his eyes questing all over. James saw his gaze slide over where he and Cassie were huddled at least twice.

'How can you tell?' Dannil looked less certain, and was chewing uncertainly on his lower lip.

'Place is hot, and smells of bodies. Someone's here. It's got to be Potter, hiding behind that invisibility spell he's got.'

Cassie's body was pressed up against James where they lay beneath the Cloak. He could feel her quivering in terror. He dared not remove the hand he'd placed over her mouth.

Caspar took a step into the room, he noted the smeared markings on the floor that Cassie's hurried spell hadn't completely removed. He looked up with a leering grin, and James could have sworn his gaze went right to them.

'Come on out, Potter. I know you're in here. Trying to sneak around in the middle of the night won't work anymore. You see, the castle is under _my_ control now. I know _everything._ '

James' breath hissed from his nose. He could probably take the both of them in a fight. But protect Cassie – who was no dueller – as well…?

'We know all about your secret meetings with Hagrid. Just you wait until we catch you in the act. You're going to _wish_ you only got expelled. What'll make it even sweeter will be getting Hagrid fired, too.'

Cassie's nervous whimpers turned to pain, and James realised he'd been clutching her upper arm in an increasingly firm grip. He relaxed, and forced himself to breathe. Accidental magic now would spell the end of them. He imagined the triangle on the plate of glass, forming the image in his Scryer's Window, shutting out Caspar's jeering voice.

'And when you're gone, I'm going to take out your little friends, one by one. Without your shadow to hide behind, they are as nothing. I think I'll start with the Ravenclaw first…'

It wasn't working. James could feel the anger burning inside him. It was hot, but blessedly so – like a steaming shower on a frozen day – painful to enter, but offered such beautiful, searing respite.

Beneath him, Cassie shifted incrementally. She turned her head the slightest fraction, just enough to catch his eye. Her brown eyes met his own, and locked onto them, holding his gaze fast. She said not a word, but managed to convey the message to him of the importance of their work. That they dared not risk discovery. That finding Rain was worth weathering all the taunts in the world. That what they were doing was bigger than James' petty grudge.

Slowly, he felt himself release a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. Above them, in the centre of the room, it was Caspar's turned to let out an angry, vexed hiss. _'Homenum Revelio,'_ he muttered.

Orange light flared at his wandtip but did nothing more than identify Dannil Pyke's presence. Not for the first time, James was eternally thankful for the magical protection bestowed his father's Cloak. Perhaps there was some truth in the story that it had once been Death's, after all…

The pair left, with no few angry mutterings between them. James counted a hundred heartbeats before he rolled over and let the Cloak fall free of the pair of them, leaving himself and Cassie flat on their backs, staring up at the unadorned ceiling above. They studied the masonry for a long time, indeed, before either decided to get up and make their bleary-eyed way back to bed.


	32. Crevice

James Potter had a problem. Strictly speaking, he had about a dozen problems at any one time. Not least of which was that the key to Rain's vindication had somehow gone missing from his room, and somebody else may have found it. Or there was also the fact that when he'd awoken that morning a sheet of parchment had been stabbed into the banister of the stairway outside the Fat Lady, marked with the now-familiar _"We Know"._ And then James could also have gone on about his Odette Mansfield problem, where they'd both been avoiding one another for the past week after his disastrous rejection of her womanly advances.

And there were countless more. All were serious, but all had to be pushed to the rear in the face of James Potter's _latest_ problem.

Tristan Macmillan had been poisoned. Only lightly, mind, but it had left him wholly incapacitated, little more than a shaking, retching, vomiting mess, confined to a bed in the Hospital Wing for at least the remainder of the week.

And tonight had been the night they chose to lay their trap for the Monsters in the Forest.

'You need to go without me,' Tristan wheezed. His face bore a sickly grey pallor. Thick creases lined his sunken, red-rimmed eyes. 'It has to be tonight.'

He was right, James knew. Plans were in motion already, they'd be hard-pressed to stop anything now. Wren – _Professor Sayre,_ James begrudgingly ceded – was scheduled to meet with them that evening. Fred's distraction was already brewing. Not to mention the building tension and the feeling that their time – and Headmistress Renshaw's – was running out.

'Are you sure Fred will be able to set the nets as well as you?' James lay a hand on Tristan's shoulder. He felt it quivering even through the thick blankets wrapped around his body.

'No,' Tristan admitted. 'But he's going to have to try.'

'Right. I'll pass on the vote of confidence.'

Tristan gave a weak, paltry smile. That effort seemed to drain the last of his reserves, and he pulled the blankets tight up under his chin and closed his eyes. The sigh he let out was strained.

'Everything hurts,' he groaned.

'I guess Chloe Swann wasn't too fond of the idea of you moving on.'

Tristan's chuckle was more of a hoarse, wheezy cough. 'Alannis is _fuming._ If you see those two in a room together, I suggest you run the other way. Plausible deniability, and all of that.'

James gave a rueful shake of the head. 'For a man so confident that he's got the ladies figured out, you sure do manage to make a hash of it on a regular basis.'

'Lessons…' Tristan whispered, his voice cracking. 'I'm just… providing you with lessons. Stay safe out there, James.'

And with that, Tristan lapsed back into a fitful sleep, his eyes darting back and forth behind his eyelids, his muscles tensing and bulging beneath his skin as his body fought off the last of whatever nasty concoction Chloe had slipped into his morning pumpkin juice.

'You too, Tristan. You, too.'

James stood up and checked his watch. It was time to move.

He padded down through the castle and out across the grounds. The setting sun was hanging low over the tops of the distant peaks, bathing the path before him in a golden glow. Only the barest hint of a breeze stirred the leaves on the trees to life. It was from the south, bringing with it a hint warmth, a smell of the summer that was to come. It smelled… expectant.

The air inside Hagrid's hut was somewhat less pleasant. With the windows closed for privacy, James joined Hagrid, Fred, Cat, and Wren, all squeezed around Hagrid's dining table and eyeing something that looked like a pile of grey-green moss that was piled up between them.

'So, this is the net, then?' James asked, reaching out a hand towards it.

'Don't touch it!' Wren hissed. 'Lest you find yourself bound in torment for eternity.'

James whipped his hand back at lightning speeds. He spun to face Professor Sayre, aghast.

She was returning his gaze with a strange one of her own. She looked a little like she was trying to stifle a large yawn. 'It's a joke, Potter. I jest. You're safe to touch it, unless you're secretly a pan-dimensional monster in disguise. Hah.'

'Don't do that.' Fred said, looking thoroughly wierded out. 'Don't joke, ever. You're awful at it. Professor.' He hastily added.

'Somebody is chipper today,' James noted, wedging himself in to sit half on Cat's lap, half on Fred's. He reached out and ran a few strands of the net through his fingers, it felt rough and grainy to the touch, and wanted to snatch and snare on the callouses of his palms. The Locket hummed happily beneath his robes.

'You incompetents have finally bumbled yourselves into an end-game here. We're going to free Aunt Tia. She could be back here within a week.'

 _A week._ James wasn't sure if it was his own heart rate fluttering in his chest, or a nervous patter from the Locket as it brushed against his bare skin. _So soon._ But with Rain's strength fading, and their trap about to be set for the Atlantean monsters, things were all coming to a head at once. James only hoped that they hadn't wasted too much time throughout the year getting to this point.

'Any further news on Aunt Tia?' James asked, trying not to smile at the pet name.

'Plenty. As for what I will share with you… she is alive, if not altogether _well._ Her trial approaches. It is mere days, rather than weeks away, now. They have locked her away in a place she does not know, and haunt her with visions of a past she would rather not relive. They try to break her, for though they treat her as guilty, they must know the folly of their actions. Surely, they must know that she is innocent. And soon, the whole world will, as well.'

So, mere days until their deadline. Less, really, as they would need to act _before_ the trial actually began. Months to build to this point, and suddenly, so little time. But when did time ever care a whit for their workings or desires?

'Is it true that Renshaw and this Dufour woman are old enemies?' James asked. He was fishing, in truth. He knew that there was _something_ between them – he'd been witness to it one fraught and fearful night aboard the Durmstrang students' ship last year. But how much – if any – would Wren reveal?

'You chart dangerous waters, James Potter. Because I am in such an agreeable mood, I shall give you this advice: do not ever bring up Aunt Tia's past, if you value your sanity.'

'Look, we've all done a few things we regret in our youth…' Fred piped up, a poor attempt at levity. Hagrid grunted. Nobody else responded.

Wren fixed him with a piercing gaze. 'Magnanimous as I am this eve, I shall give you all one further piece of information. Little more than hearsay, for there is scant that Aunt Tia discusses even with myself, her favoured niece.

'You are right in saying that Aunt Tia and the Dufour woman are old enemies, James. But they are even older friends. This much, she has told me. And in the same way that the hottest iron forms the strongest bonds, so, too, does it shatter the most violently.

'It is told that a small group of them, working at the forefront of magical research, stumbled on to a secret so vast and terrifying, that the knowledge alone drove some of them mad. Aunt Tia and Dufour disagreed – passionately – about how this secret should be handled, as it was to affect the entire magical world.

'As to what happened next, I can but speculate. There was a betrayal. Dufour brought somebody into their circle from outside, at this most fractious time. A killer began to stalk their midst, picking off members one by one, seemingly intent on keeping the secret buried, until only three remained: Aunt Tia, Valerie Dufour, and the man named Egil Beck, who had stayed neutral in all. The three fled, and took their versions of the secret with them. Some time later, all have resurfaced, each one at the helm of the most powerful magical schools in Europe.'

Fred let out a long, low whistle.

Hagrid tugged at his silver-streaked beard. 'Bloody hell,' he rumbled. 'Think I'll need meself another tea, after all o' that.'

Cat, who had been looking thoughtful, finally spoke up. 'What better way to control the future magical landscape than by influencing the minds of the ones who will one day populate it.'

'Dark thoughts, those, Kattala,' Hagrid growled. His beetle-black eyes looked guarded and concerned.

'A ready-made army,' Fred breathed.

'All she has to do,' James added, with a pointed gesture around the table. 'Is win our loyalty.'

'Hah!' Wren suddenly barked. It caused James to start, and Cat to jump, costing him an elbow in the ribs. 'Look at you all, so quick to jump to earth-breaking conclusions. Truly, you are your father's son, James Potter. Eager for a world to save. When, in truth, we know nothing more than there are three old friends with egos the size of gods', locked in a battle of one-uppery to see who can raise their school to ascendancy first. Little more than the taunt of "I can do it better than you". Now come, before my patience wears thin, I must tell you about this net, and you must tell me your plan, so I can point out where you have gone wrong, and likely save your miserable lives…'

Ah, there it was. That was the Wren Sayre James was familiar with.

She made doubly- and triply-sure that Fred knew what hew as doing with the net. It had been Tristan's task originally – he had designed the combination of spells and triggers to hold it in place. Even Wren had given a grudging appreciation at his efforts. Fred was adamant that he would be up to the task, eager to participate now that he had finally been brought into the fold in a more active role.

Wren told James he was insane for his part of the plan, but agreed that there was little other option. James just shrugged, patted his chest and gave her a guarded smile. 'I've got a weighted Gobstone up my sleeve,' he assured her. He could have been mistaken, but the Locket seemed to emit _amusement_ at that.

And then they were off, with Hagrid leading the way, gigantic crossbow cradled in the crook of one arm. Sirius scouted out around them, making sure that they had no unwanted spectators as they slipped through the back door of Hagrid's hut and down into the fringes of the Forest, into her eager, midnight embrace.

Though Tristan was not there to chart for them a track, Hagrid was more than familiar with these parts of the Forest, and guided them swiftly through the undergrowth, sticking to the well-marked paths that were slowly beginning to form a familiar network in James' mind. There was the fork at the shattered fir, at which they turned left. Then a thick copse of sapling pines whose trunks were so intermingled as to prevent through passage. Here, they took a right, and skirted a game trail around the thickest of the brush. Next, a small oxbow lake that was almost dried up, and they crossed it in three strides. The creek from which it had shed was little more than a mucky, mired mess between two ridges, that they wended their way around along a well-travelled path.

'Eerily quiet,' Fred observed, after almost a half hour of trekking.

James just mumbled in response. He didn't want to put to voice the fact that they were effectively stalking through these monsters' killing grounds. Everything that had once lived here had either fled to the deeper parts of the Forest, or had ended up in a small depression in stone, near the lakeshore, a pile of bones left as an offering to masters long-since banished.

When they arrived at the spot where James had been taken last time, Hagrid signalled them all back, keeping the group concealed within the treeline, rather than risk venturing out into the open space that fringed the clifftops, marching off in either direction before them.

'Now, James, you're sure about what you want ter do?'

James nodded, and hefted the backpack he'd been carrying. There was no second-guessing, now. No time for going back. Now was the time for action.

'Right, then. Well the openin' is about three hundred paces up to our left. When Tristan dragged you out, he marked the rock with a flaming 'X'. You'll find the entrance under it. Be careful, mind. Don't go getting' yerself all cut up again.'

James gave a wry smile at the group. Shadowed eyes twinkled back in the darkness. 'I'll take that into consideration.'

And with no further farewells, he headed off. He skirted the edges of the wooded area, stepping out into the open beneath the starlight as rarely as possible. All the while, he counted his paces. As the last time he'd made this journey, he imagined he'd have been unconscious in Hagrid's arms.

The rock was right where Hagrid said it was. It stood proud among the matted grasses and stony soil around it. A gnarled, thorny bush grew around its base, scrabbling at the uncaring stone façade with clutching, scratching fingers. James could see a pool of deeper blackness at its base, almost wholly concealed.

He loosed his wand where it sat tucked into the waistband of his jeans. From a pocket in his rucksack he produced a small, stoppered vial, filled with a dark, purplish liquid. Tiny sparkling flecks within it mirrored the night sky above. His very own Dark-Piercing Decoction, swindled from under Professor Ellfrick's nose. She'd never expected him to be able to brew it correctly, and so had been unsurprised when his cauldron had been half empty. She'd thought he'd boiled it all away.

James chuckled, as he down the contents, and congratulated himself on that very Slytherin ploy. If he could understand how people thought of him, then he could wield that as a weapon to glean key moments of unpredictability.

The night came alive all around him, as the potion took hold. The sky above was afire, brighter than midday. Each star was its own, molten blaze, shining with white-hot brilliance, illuminating everything around him. Shadows quailed before his enhanced vision, vanquished by the power of his potion, so that not even the deepest darkness was a mystery to him.

James blinked a few times, getting used to the sudden sensory onslaught, then bolted for the gap beneath the rock, sliding at the last minute to avoid the worst of the thornbushes scrabbling hands.

He made sure not to jostle his pack overmuch as he slipped down into the small crack that would eventually become the cave which housed the Atlantean monsters. The contents were _not_ something that he wanted to upset.

Slowly, methodically, he made his way down, deeper through the tunnels. He relied largely on hazy memories of a panicked flight from this place. The lines between what was real and what was little more than fevered dreaming were blurred beyond recognition, but the trail of blood he'd left – unweathered in this timeless place – was as a shining golden highway before him, more than sufficient to lead him on.

The space was just as narrow as he recalled. Tiny slivers and cracks in the limestone rock that he had to fold and slip and edge his body through, time and again. His breathing soon became laboured. His unnatural vision showed him the rugged, bared rock on all sides, even as it grabbed and clawed at every inch of his exposed flesh, grating and scratching and giving up only reluctantly every single inch of progress. Secrets held in the heart of the earth were not easily given up, it seemed.

The air in the cave was stale and thick, and it stung his nostrils. Too long without seeing life, or sunlight. Only very rarely did a serendipitous opening of the tunnel he followed allow a breeze to funnel through, and momentarily wash away the scent of rotting things. But it was never for long.

He was uncertain himself as to when he would arrive at the cleft that marked the entrance to the monsters' cave, but the Locket seemed to be providing him with a kind of warning signal. As he descended, its vibrations grew against his chest. More frantic and fraught. Building, towards a fever pitch. He thought he could hear it emit a soft keening sound, but down there, with the air and the earth all packed in so close, it was hard to distinguish what was real, and what lived only in his mind.

Surprisingly, James recognised the cleft in the rock he would have to slip through to take himself through into the monsters' lair. It was narrow and jagged, shaped almost like a lightning bolt. Before he shuffled through, he adjusted his pack and checked its contents. All appeared fine. He'd certainly have known about it if something had gone amiss.

Through the stone he ventured, turning himself sideways so as to fit. He slid the pack through ahead of himself and slowly edged in behind it. The Locket on caught, wedged between his chest and a rough protrusion in the rock. He had to lean back and bend himself a little further to fit.

At last, blessed open space. Here, he could actually _hear_ a breeze, as well as feel one. The ceiling above him stretched up three, four times his own height. He'd not realised the sheer size of this central passageway the last time he'd been here. Although, in his defence, he'd also been frantically fighting for his life on that occasion, so some things ought to be forgiven.

The rock was different here, too. Where before it had been a buff, sandy limestone that he had traversed through, in here the walls were coated with a grey patina, almost pearlescent before his magically-enhanced vision, the glowed and shimmered and shifted like the northern lights. The effect was one of constant movement in his periphery, and it caused him to crick his neck more than a few times as he spun to chase nothing more than shadows.

James strained his ears, but heard not a sound. Good enough for him. With any luck, the monsters would be out hunting. They'd figured that they were nocturnal beasts, so this had been the best time to act. He set about hastily – but gently – removing the contents of his rucksack. Every single one of Fred's 'sploders, and a few of his cussers, to boot, had been packed into the magically-expanded space. They were boxed into cases of a half-dozen, nestled in among wood chips like the most delicate of eggs. James shuddered to think of the repercussions of breaking one – particularly in the presence of the four dozen more he had about his person.

They were the "encouragement' as Fred called them, rigged so as to drive the monsters out of their cave, charmed to detonate remotely at James' behest. A piece of magic of Fred's own devising, and brilliant enough to have earned even Cassie's praise. With luck, they'd force the monsters up, out of the cave, and right into the net that Wren had fabricated for them, to be released on Tristan's signal. The net was charged full of more of Wren's most powerful Enchantments than James could count and – all going to plan – they'd have two Atlantean monsters snared and drained of power, weak enough to be at their mercy. From there, it was up to Harry and Wren to arrange Renshaw's freedom, with the help of their freshly caught evidence.

' _Defodio!'_ James hissed, gouging out a small space in the rock. He filled it with a pair of 'Sploders, and then packed in the rubble form his efforts loosely over top.

The central tunnel he was currently in ran perhaps the length of a Quidditch pitch before opening up to the starry sky beyond. It was cut by a half dozen cross-passages and rooms off to the side, some of which housed deep pools of water that glowed a vibrant, crystalline azure colour in his vision. In each of these he hid Fred's incendiary devices. Enough to threaten the integrity of the cavern, but – hopefully – not so much as to bring it down outright and crush their quarry beneath a thousand tonnes of earth.

A simple enough plan, provided they could get the set-up right. They could trigger it at any time. The only true uncertainty would be around whether or not both monsters were in the cave at the time they detonated the explosives. But Hagrid's understanding of their daily routine indicated that they were almost guaranteed to be sleeping in their roost during daylight hours.

Simple, then. In theory.

James was planting the final few cussers when he heard it. The unmistakeable _whoosh_ of air rushing over gigantic wings. The Locket on his chest started vibrating intensely. The narrow sliver of night sky that he could see up the end of the cave suddenly became blotted out by a pair of vast, terrible shapes. He swore under his breath, his fingers shaking as he packed in the last of the gravels that concealed the explosives.

Reaching down to snatch up his rucksack, he bolted back up towards his exit. Behind him, he heard the clack and clatter of massive, taloned feet landing heavily upon the cavern floor. He dared not look back. His heart was hammering up around his throat. He could feel their piercing golden eyes boring in to his back. Could practically sense their bodies coiling, preparing to pounce.

Any minute now, the bite of those claws would pierce the flesh of his back, would drive him down to the earth beneath their massive weight.

The cry that was unleashed was as appalling and fearful as anything he had heard before. He could feel it _inside_ his brain, tearing with sharp-edged claws at the very fabric of his mind, rending sense and awareness from his thoughts, so that only blind panic and animal fear remained.

He slammed into the stone next to the narrow crevasse. Scratching, clacking footsteps were pelting up the cave. Hulking shapes – real, now – loomed in his periphery. He forced his body through, growling in frustration at the tight fit. He felt something pull at his neck, holding him back until with a sudden _pop_ he tumbled free, and began scrabbling for purchase on the long, winding ascent towards the surface, leaving the angry chittering, growling noises behind. The sound of the angry monsters' consternation fading slowly along with his sheer, blind, terror.

The last few seconds of his climb were undertaken in darkness, as the effects of his potion wore off. James dragged himself up to the surface to find Cat, Fred and Hagrid waiting for him beside the entrance. Cat bundled him into a bone-cracking hug the moment he drew himself to his feet, her breathless voice in his ear tripped over all of her gushing words of relief.

The group made their hurried, silent way back through the Forest, and up towards the castle. The nervous energy and anticipation that had sustained them up until this point was gone, dissipated at the successful completion of their mission. They were left with only the dregs of their willpower to fight off waves of drowsiness that assailed them, and James mumbled only the most cursory of good nights to Cat and the Fred, as they all went their separate ways to bed.

James cast aside his trousers, but only as far as the end of the bed. His shirt, he noted, had torn down the collar. He tossed it aside onto the pile, a problem for tomorrow. He lay back heavily on his pillows, staring down at his bare chest, illuminated by the ghostly light of the moon. The sunburst scar shone softly against his pale flesh.

Wait a minute. His bare chest. _Bare._ As in completely unadorned, free of all accoutrements.

 _Rain's Locket was missing._


	33. Interlude V

The dark, cavernous space was large enough to fit people in the hundreds. But for now, it housed only two. Two figures arrayed opposite one another over a small, wooden table. A bodiless flame flickered between them, hovering just below eye level, about a hands' breadth off the table. Heavy, crystalline tumblers filled with a dark amber liquid held bottomless reflections of the light.

The figure on the right reached down to take his glass, and emptied its contents in one. He was tall, solid and imposing. A heavy, square jaw was dusted with stubble. Broad, powerful shoulders bore a long, black cape which was draped over the back of his chair. It bore a few tattered remnants of midnight black feathers, and seemed to emanate its own sort of darkness, deeper even than the blackness of the underground space he occupied. Occupied, and managed to fill by his presence alone.

'It is done, Raven,' spoke the second figure. The frail form of Gwendolyn Tuft made no move for her own glass. Her bony hands were wringing ceaselessly in her lap. Her wild eyes darted all around the cave, as if seeking an exit that she knew wasn't there. The darkness stared implacably back at her.

'You have finally broken through her defences, then?' Raven's voice was slow and measured. He spoke with indomitable momentum of a landslide. Each word buffeted Gwendolyn like a physical blow.

'Y-yes. The very last ones. She is still reeling from the loss. But in time, she will recover. Rebuild. She is no ordinary girl.'

'Then it must be soon. The one she protects is anything but ordinary. Unsurprising that some ability has leaked through to the host body.'

'Host? I- I think not.'

'Explain.'

'I think… I think that they are one and the same. That they are somehow two faces of the _same_ coin. One that is, and one that could have been, perhaps? One that _was_? I am not quite certain. The granular truth of it eludes me, but I believe it is more complex than we originally thought.'

'The more we uncover, the more we find that we do not know.'

'A dangerous predicament to find ourselves in, Raven.'

Raven tapped his fingers against the side of his tumbler. Heavyset golden rings clinked against the glass. He looked thoughtful. A dark cloud stole over his features, and his eyes took on a distant cast. Gwendolyn Tuft knew better than to disturb his musings.

'Tell me all of what you have pieced together, then,' he finally spoke. His voice was a slow, measured rumble. 'Spare no detail.'

Gwendolyn's breath hitched in her throat. Raven, in a roundabout way, was asking for _her_ advice. Could she spin the tale such that she could spare the poor, broken girl? She _knew_ that she could do what Raven asked _and_ save her. She just needed more _time._

'The girl is a victim, Raven. She is under siege.'

'You just finished telling me that she and her Dark power are one and the same.' Raven surveyed her over the rim of his glass, which had filled itself with more of the dark liquid.

Gwendolyn sucked in a shaking breath and wrung her hands. 'Of course, yes. That is to say- I do not think that the girl has control over this power-'

'Then the host body has been compromised? We should exterminate her immediately, if that is the case.'

' _No!'_

Gwendolyn's glass shattered under a sudden flare of accidental magic. That had _never_ happened to her before. Tears were misting her vision, and she had leaned forward in her seat, a vain attempt to tower over Raven's imposing figure.

'You are too attached to her,' Raven drawled. There was no emotion in his voice, no empathy or caring or anything that could be mistaken as human. 'I question your ability to carry out what needs to be done.'

'No! I mean- _yes_ , I can do it, trust me. Please?' her bold statement ended in a pitiful question. Gwendolyn had to visibly steel herself to continue, drawing in a deep breath and sitting a little straighter in her chair. Though she still wouldn't quite meet Raven's eyes.

'We set out to find what – or who – escaped from Flamel's tomb. To find who shattered the great dolmens of Stonehenge, who has riven Hadrian's wall, and made even the most ancient of the White Horses bleed. The one named the Desecrator has brought the ancient magical sites of Britain to their knees, beyond repair or recovery. Feats so dire that even the Muggles have been alerted to these precipitous acts-'

'You're rambling. Get on with it.' Raven set down his empty tumbler with a heavy _clink._

'Y-yes, of course. The girl has been of interest ever since she was found at the, er… heart… of the attack on the Heart of Hogwarts some years ago. It was clear to us that, between herself and young master Lupin, that _she_ was the one acting of her own volition. The Steelhearts, gifted from Galatea Renshaw – perhaps for this very purpose – were set to tail her every move, in the hopes that she would lead us to this vile Desecrator.

'Instead, we found no trail to some hooded dark master, but – and from what I have seen, there can be no other explanation – that the girl _herself_ has committed these fell crimes.'

Raven gave a low grunt, like he'd just been winded. 'You want me to believe that a twelve-year-old girl has committed acts of magical treason and sacrilege with power beyond anything seen in centuries?'

'Actually, she's more like fifteen…'

'Semantics!' Raven bellowed, slapping the table with his fist. Gwendolyn whimpered audibly, and hugged herself, rocking back and forth on her chair in terror.

'I-it is the only conclusion that can be drawn, M-master Raven. Her power is not a gift bestowed by a cruel and powerful Dark Lord, it is… it is of her own making. Her own _being._

'Raven, I think there can be no other explanation but to say that _this girl_ is _the Desecrator.'_

Raven's eyes were dark, glittering chips of flint behind the shadows of his heavy brow. He stroked his chin in thought for a moment, before nodding to himself

'This changes naught. If anything, it works in our favour. We shall continue, as soon as practicable. I will have this mystery solved, Gwendolyn, I will see your assertion proven, one way or the other. But, above all, I _will_ have that power Chained.'

'The girl will die.' Gwendolyn's voice was little more than a whisper.

'A serendipitous outcome, I should think. Especially given what you have just told me.'

'Please, Raven. If you gave me more time, I think- I think I could work out a way to achieve the results you want as well as spare her. I just need to-'

'Unacceptable. We continue as planned. Now that the girl is broken, we must act swiftly and decisively. I must travel briefly, but when I return, you shall begin your ministrations, for the final time.'

'The final time,' Gwendolyn echoed.

Raven paused, and almost as an afterthought, he added. 'It will be done next to the Veil. That way, should things go wrong, the girl can be shoved Beyond and Death can have her.'

 _More like, that way you can bundle the pair of us through the moment my concentration slips,_ Gwendolyn thought, but she kept that thought buried oh, so, deep. In response, she only nodded once.

'Prepare yourself, for this weekend shall change us all. And smile, Gwendolyn. Your Ministry is most grateful.'

Inside her tiny, cramped cell, Rain tossed fitfully in her sleep. Her eyelids fluttered, darting open to reveal the faded whites of red-stained eyes, rolled right back into her head. She clutched at the bare tiles sightlessly, her fingers scrabbling for purchase, and finding none. Her nails left bloody tracks on the stone tiles, painting her desperation in red-stained smears among the greasy film of mud that coated everything.

 _James Potter._ Her mind quested endlessly, desperately. Every last scrap of energy she had, she poured into these pleas. But since that single night, she had been unable to reach him again. In fact, she could feel nothing at all through the Locket, where before, his presence – however distant – had been as comforting as a blanket to her.

The sundering of her mental defences had come like a physical blow, rocking her to the very depths of her twisted, malformed soul. It had left her breathless, reeling, and weak to the point of utter exhaustion. She knew now what would come next. They sought to unleash Her. Though they could not truly know the consequences – not even Rain herself could be certain, her captors sought to free _Her._ For her power, no doubt. An almost endless font. A wellspring of magic that would burn to ash everything that it touched. _She_ would see to that.

Desperately, Rain needed James, and so she continued to throw her very last reserves of strength into finding him.

But, a few nights back, her sense of the Locket had vanished entirely. Before, she had felt James so close as if he were in the cell with her.

Now, there was nothing.

There was no mirth in Galatea Renshaw's smile. There was only bone-weary tiredness. Dark bruised rims beneath her eyes melded into deep creases at the corners. Her lips stretched back to reveal red-stained teeth from gums that never stopped bleeding. Though her hands were folded demurely in her lap, the knuckles were tensed and pale, the gnarled, ropy tendons on the backs of her hands standing proud, quivering with the effort.

Valerie Dufour looked upon the face of a woman defeated, and could not help but feel content.

'I trust you slept well,' she purred in heavily-accented English. Renshaw visibly flinched.

'You know the answer to that.' Her voice was hoarse and raspy. Weeks at a time without use would do that.

'It could be said that I am doing you a favour, Galatea. They say that the screams of the insane never cease in Nurmengard. By the time you arrive, you will feel as if you are coming home.'

'May your death be a slow one, Valerie.'

'Ah, it could have been, had you finished what you started, back when we were young. Now, I suppose, it is my turn.'

'I never went after you.'

'Out of fear, not love, Galatea. You sought to undercut my entire support network before you dared face me. Every single person I trusted, you killed. My _friends,_ Galatea. You killed my _friends!'_

Galatea Renshaw flinched before the onslaught, but her back stayed straight. How could it not, when she was tied to tight to the rickety wooden chair that had become her throne?

'You'll find it a treacherous slope to claim any moral high ground, Valerie. I know for a fact that some of those whom I disposed of had held knives to your own throat. Careful what words you now put in their mouths.'

'Ever the righteous one, was Galatea Renshaw. All the way down to your delusions of saving the magical world from the horrors we uncovered. _Whatever the cost._ '

Dufour's voice dripped with derision.

'Better than burying my head in the sand and pretending it wasn't real.'

Dufour frowned. 'Cutting off the hand to save an arm is a drastic strategy, Galatea.'

'Any worse than watching it rot away before your eyes?'

Valerie Dufour made to speak, but closed her mouth, and momentarily pursed dark-painted lips. She leaned back in her comfortable, cushioned chair and laced her fingers across her stomach. A mask slipped over her face, the irritation washed away, and she studied Renshaw through heavy-lidded eyes.

'We trod well-worn paths, Galatea. Let us put aside these ancient arguments. You have called for me. You wish to speak, do so.'

Galatea Renshaw drew herself up to the full height that her bindings would allow. She held her chin high as she visibly steeled herself. There was not a quaver of fear in her voice when he spoke.

'I wish to confess to my crimes.'

Dufour blinked. It was her only show of surprise. 'Go on…'

'I have but one condition.'

'You'll find no promises of a reduced sentence here, Galatea.'

Renshaw shook her head. 'I seek nothing of the sort. I ask for but one thing. That you spare my niece. Spare my darling Wren… _please_.'

Breath hissed from between Dufour's teeth. 'She is as complicit as you.'

'She is not! I have told her nothing, in fear of this very moment. I told her nothing to protect her. She is yet too young to bear the burdens us battered old hags are forced to carry. This ends with me, Valerie.'

'You know how much I hate loose ends, Galatea.'

'She is barely more than a girl, Valerie.'

'As were we, when you drew your knife.'

'But she is _innocent._ If your thirst for vengeance is not sated by merely locking me up, then I will welcome the kiss of an assassin's blade in the night. I will step from the battlements of the tower myself, but I beg of you, _do not harm Wren.'_

Valerie sat for a short moment. She took a lengthy breath in through her nose and looked past Renshaw, into a place far from the tiny room they currently shared.

'Very well,' she finally spoke. 'Your confessions – your life – for the life of your niece. For that is what awaits you, a life time in Nurmengard, I shall make sure of it. There will be no assassin's blade to end your suffering, either. I should much prefer to see you wither away day by day. My enjoyment will be without end.'

A vein twitched in Renshaw's neck, but she made no other signs of fear. 'So be it.'

'I have your word?'

'My word, for what it's worth. I will testify before as many as you so choose, as many as you can fit in a council of law, as soon as it can be arranged.'

'We had some time before your trial, but I shall bring this thing forward. It shall happen this weekend.'

Valerie Dufour smiled a cold smile, and there was no mirth to be found in this one, either.


	34. Preparation

James' mind ran wild like a thing untamed. It galloped across plains while wildfire flames of despair licked at his heels. It charged through rivers where the raging, frothing torrent of hopelessness fought to drag him under. It hammered upon the door of action with a burning desire to _do._ It started down one path and then another again and again, each time drawing up as the burden of futility grew too much to bear.

He was on the cusp of losing Rain. After everything he and Cassie had done throughout the year. After getting so _close._ He could not stomach the thought, the looming dolmen of failure that threatened to blot out the sun everywhere he looked. It drove him to _act._ But knowing so little, and with such scant evidence, he could find no path that offered even the shadow of a hint of success.

He'd turned the Gryffindor boys' dormitory inside out, looking for whatever it was that Rain had left tucked beneath his pillow in her final vision. Even to the point of prying up the floorboards beneath his bed. But his search turned up nothing, and he began to think himself delirious, or his memory addled, for even recalling it in the first place.

His every waking moment was spent pacing, moving, _restless._ His mind was electric, and his body couldn't help but follow suit. His friends had begged him to be calm, to relax, to _sleep._ For his nights had been filled with nothing but his crawling all over the castle, through every hidden nook and cranny, searching. For what, he didn't know. Only that he needed _answers._

He was counting down the days, the hours, the very heartbeats until the weekend arrived. Where a Quidditch match on Saturday morning would provide them with cover they needed to slip unseen into the Forest.

Slytherin against Ravenclaw, it was bound to be well-attended. Slytherin needed a win to keep pace with the red-hot Hufflepuff side, fresh from a three-hundred point drubbing of a Gryffindor team lacking James' services. But, should Ravenclaw pull off an upset victory, Gryffindor's hopes would remain barely alive, needing a comprehensive win over Slytherin in the penultimate match, and then Ravenclaw to defeat Hufflepuff by a margin of five-hundred points…

Not even the most stalwart among them were ready to bet a Knut on that occurring.

Meanwhile, James' classes were a cavalcade of reprimands, lost house points, and his own bitter retorts, fired back without thinking. He cursed at Calantha Merriweather when she tried to take over a Charms lesson, and unapologetically levelled a Bludgeoning Hex at Professor Meadows' desk after he lost a duel in Defence.

Only three days since he learned that he'd lost the Locket, and a trail of destruction already lay in his wake.

It was no surprise, then, that he found himself getting bundled into Professor Meadows' office on Friday afternoon, her vice-like grip crushing the tendons and muscles of his upper arm.

'Get in here, Potter,' she growled, tossing him unceremoniously into her classroom. James stumbled through the door and righted himself on one of the desks facing the front of the room. Writing still spiderwebbed across the blackboard, outlining a complex series of wand movements from a class just gone.

'What do you want?' James asked, distractedly. He was playing with a splinter on the nearest table, peeling it back piece by piece and pointedly avoiding looking at the Defence Professor.

'Impromptu A.R.S.E lesson, Potter, front and centre.' Zoe Meadows step- _thumped_ her way to the front of the room and folded her arms impatiently.

'Don't have the time,' James replied, turning to leave. 'I've got things to do.'

He wasn't lying overmuch. The next day, they were venturing out into the Forest. He had things to prepare, he had people to see. Well, just one person, really…

'No, you bloody don't.' The door slammed shut in his face, and he felt a sudden pressure on his shoulders, forcing him to turn his body and face the Professor. Her face was a thunderhead, with a dark scowl dominating her usually-cheery features.

'Whatever.' James allowed himself to be forced up to the front of the room. He was trying to save _lives,_ and Professor bloody Meadows was trying to teach him anger management. He had bigger things to be doing.

'What's gotten into you, these last few days, Potter? You've been thrice the headache you usually are, and with none of the laughs. You've failed homework assignments in every class, been outright rude to the professors, and by all accounts have practically given up on your lessons.'

'Nothing,' was James' surly response.

' _Fucking_ teenagers,' Professor Meadows swore. 'You're all convinced whatever you're up to is the centre of the universe.'

James just scoffed. If only she knew…

But she didn't know, and so he was forced to endure another half-hour of mental and verbal abuse as Zoe Meadows slipped into her harsh, disciplinarian mode and tried to crack James' control on his emotions. Only this time, he was too distracted to care.

When Professor Longbottom arrived, it was Zoe Meadows who was just about at breaking point.

He wasted no time with words, only skewering James with a disapproving look, and placing the small, square pane of the Scryer's Window on the table between them.

And so James was forced into playing the visualisation game once more. Professor Longbottom asked him to make triangles, circles, squares. A blue light, then a green one, then one that changed colour. Even, finally, an image of his own face.

James didn't get close to any of them. Eventually, all three threw their hands up in despair, but _still,_ James wasn't allowed to leave. A nervous sort of energy was building within him, as the hours melted away. His last night. He tried to shut out the voice in his head that kept adding _ever._

'Will you tell us what is upsetting you, James?' Professor Longbottom asked calmly. He and Professor Meadows stood over James where he sat at a desk near the front of the room. He glowered up at the both of them.

'Quidditch,' he lied. He picked that, as it was most likely to be believable.

'Next year,' Professor Longbottom said. 'Perhaps we can re-negotiate with the Ministry Overseers. Perhaps clearer heads will prevail.'

James sneered. If he had his way tomorrow, the Ministry would be out of Hogwarts long before next year. Before next _week,_ with a bit of luck.

'I know it probably feels unfair,' Zoe Meadows added. 'But you _needed_ to be held accountable for what happened.'

James suddenly desired nothing more than to be out of there. The professors – neither of them – knew what they were talking about. He thought, of all of his teachers, he could have trusted these two, but they were just as bad as all the rest. Worse, even, in that they would bad-mouth the Ministry to James one minute, and then leap to do their bidding the next. These lessons, his Quidditch ban, the whole stupid lot, could have been avoided if they'd just stood up to Shelby and Merriweather in the first place.

Meadows, he could understand. For all her bluster, she had been a Hufflepuff. But Professor Longbottom? _Head_ of Gryffindor house, and he was being walked over like a damned rug. James lurched to his feet. He'd had enough.

'James, wait,' Professor Longbottom said. There was enough of a commanding tone in his voice to pause James for just a second. 'Before you go, I want you to take this. Maybe it'll help.'

Into James' palm, he pressed a small, weatherworn pebble. It was a dull, flat brown, with a vein of something pale through the centre. It was incredibly smooth to the touch.

'What is this?' James sneered.

'A gift from my mother, the first time I visited her in St Mungo's.'

That, at least, cut through most of James' irritation. He coughed uncomfortably, not knowing what to say.

'I rub this stone in the palm of one hand when I'm feeling anxious or stressed. It helps me to think of them, and that there are more important things in life than whatever small frustration I may be facing at the time. It's not much, but it's done me well over the years. Perhaps it might be able to help you through your current bother.'

'R-Right,' James stammered, averting his gaze. 'Thanks.'

With that, he scurried from the room, pocketing the stone and closing the door behind him with a sense of relief.

A glance at his watch told him that curfew was fast approaching, but he still had one last stop to make before he could make his way to bed and pretend to sleep for one last time.

He knew she'd still be awake. She had a match tomorrow. And if there was any one person in the entire castle who cared more for Quidditch than James, it was Odette Mansfield. He knew he'd find her undertaking her new nightly routine of pacing through the winding pathways of the lower dungeons, muttering formations and strategies to herself as she tried to vent off the nervous energy bit by bit.

There was no plan forming in James' mind, as he descended through the castle. His motives were born of his desire to _act._ His restless energy that forced him into decisiveness, if only to compensate for the failure he'd already achieved. To distract his mind from the gravity of his loss.

He found her in a long, sweeping corridor that was lit by emerald torches all down one side. The eerie light threw ambiguous shadows that danced and twirled across the bared pavers. The opposite side of the corridor was windowed at the surface of the lake, and the water lapped softly at a level around the top of the panes. Every so often it gave a glimpse of a moonlit night. Beneath the surface, darkness ruled complete.

'James Sirius Potter.' her voice was soft, and dangerous.

James gulped. He only got called that when he was in trouble. 'Hello, Odette.'

'Come to resurrect some of my _old_ pre-match routines, have you?'

James shook his head. 'Never been a fan of handcuffs, personally.'

Odette smiled at him through her eyelashes. 'You'll come around.'

 _Where was this going?_ Mindless banter back-and-forth. Venting the overwhelming pressure of sexual frustrations through the tiny crack that was their glib little jibes.

 _Act._

'I wondered if we could- could go somewhere private.'

Something must have shown through in James' features as he spoke, for Odette's expression changed entirely. From mock-coy, tongue-in-cheek to heavy and serious in the space between two heartbeats.

'In truth? What are you playing at, James?'

James scuffed a shoe on the floor before him. 'We… left things unfinished, last time.'

Merlin, but he had no idea what he was doing. As Odette regarded him with narrowed eyes, he felt like he was standing face to face with the golden-eyed Atlantean Monsters once more. He only hoped that when she opened her mouth, he had less reason to fear.

'No.'

'I'm… sorry?'

'I said, no James. I'm no cheap harlot to be called upon at your whim. You've avoided me ever since your rejection. What, have the quiet times in the showers become too dull for you, all of a sudden?'

'I thought you wanted-'

The mistake in James' choice of words was made suddenly and abundantly clear to him as Odette took a threatening step forward and puffed out her chest – _don't look there._

'So I'd come _crawling_ to you upon your whim? That I was just over here, dripping in anticipation this whole time, waiting for James _fucking_ Potter to be ready?'

This was getting out of hand fast. At this rate, Odette would be chasing him back up the corridor brandishing one of those strange green torches in no time flat.

So, instead of backing down from the burgeoning barrage, James stepped forward, bringing himself face-to-face with Odette. The move stunned her into silence for the half-second he needed to gather his thoughts.

'I made a mistake. I thought that I wasn't ready to commit to you in the midst of so many things… so much chaos that has been going on around me. But that was wrong.'

He saw her expression soften at his words, the beginnings of a warm smile began to spread across her lips. That sultry, knowing regard that was so familiar. _This was a test_ he suddenly realised. And by Odette's expression, he was beginning to find a passing grade.

'You don't add to that chaos, I realised. You anchor me through it. While everything around me shifts and changes, the breath-taking whirlwind of your presence is always the same. You're the broom between my legs in the wildest winds-'

'Careful with your words now, James, lest you leave me a quivering mess on the floor.' She reached out and lay a hand upon his chest. Warmth radiated from her touch.

James allowed himself a smile. 'Then we'll just have to do this right here.'

Odette threw her head back, and melodious peals of laughter rang out through the corridor. A lone student passing by stopped to throw the couple a curious glance. More fuel to Odette's fire.

She leaned in so close that their cheeks were touching, and her voice was a breathy whisper in James' ear.

'Perhaps it is true, that the way to a woman's… heart is with laughter.'

'It's not your laughter I'm chasing tonight, Odette, but your sighs.'

Her hand clutched the front of James' shirt. Suddenly. Fiercely. Odette pressed their foreheads together so close that when she spoke, her lips brushed James' own.

'Good lord, James. I think my heart just stopped.'

James untangled himself from her grip and stepped back, taking hold of both of her hands. He led her a step up the corridor.

'Then I had best do my best to re-start it. Come.'

'Oh, all in due time, James.' Odette's voice was husky and smooth, and charged with something animal. 'All in due time…'

Could there be any other place for such an event to occur than the balcony? _The_ balcony. _Their_ balcony. The place where it had all begun. That they had claimed as their own through layer upon layer of shared memories soaked into the wooden frame like the finest of lacquer.

This time, there were no toying games. No subtle build up. No doublespeak. There was nothing coy about the heated collision as their lips met, or the way they clung so fiercely to one another. James' shirt was torn free the moment they ascended the stairs. He couldn't tell if it had been he or Odette who removed it.

Up above them the stars began to come to life. The million eyes of Night were the only witness to the scene that was unfolding. They made no move to speak up in protest.

Odette wrapped her body around him, pulling James deeper into her embrace.

 _This is it, then,_ he thought, as he entwined his fingers in her hair. _This is the night that innocence dies. The last cloak of childhood is shed._

He tried to think of it as he had told Odette. A sign of commitment. And not as a defiant last act. A final flaring of his flame, before it was winked out by what lay ahead.

But as fingernails bit deep into the flesh of his back, and teeth found his lower lip, such maudlin thoughts were forgotten, and his mind was swept away by a tumultuous sea, where the sound of the waves was played out in gasps and moans. It was a sea of wild abandon, of ecstasy, and, eventually, of release.


	35. Goldeneyes

Scraggly, struggling undergrowth clutched feebly at the ankles and knees of the group, as they faded in and out between the shadows of the Forbidden Forest. The rare shafts of sunlight that made it through to the Forest floor were avoided, for no wands lit their way, and their dark-vision was a precious thing to be guarded closely. A practiced art, now, their passage could barely be heard, but every sight, sound and shudder from among the trees around them was observed, analysed, and summarily dismissed.

For today, these witches and wizards were the prey of nothing.

Through a gentle valley, they passed. The ground underfoot was damp and springy. The spring thaw was well underway, and the mountains wept their snowy burdens down to the lakeshore in the form of such ephemeral streams.

Up ahead, a fallen tree provided a clearing. The once-proud figure was now slumped and deformed, crying verdant tears in the form of sheets of moss, as it, like all things, gave way to the harsh necessities of life. Or, more precisely, Death.

For even the tallest of trees would be felled, when the time came.

The group stopped. Though the journey was neither far nor arduous, they set about sipping water and readying gear, such as it was. There was a tense, taught air hanging around them, binding them to stiff movements and scant few words. It was a foolish hunter that showed no caution.

'Once we have the Goldeneyes trapped,' James Potter whispered. 'I'm going to try get back into their cave and find the Locket.'

He was fiddling with his wand, where he'd tucked it into the waistband of his trousers. He'd shifted and repositioned it no fewer than a dozen times, already.

'You'll do no such bloody thing,' Harry Potter growled from where he stood across the clearing, taking sips from a waterskin. 'Even if the cave _is_ still accessible, it'll be a death trap. Could fall at any moment.'

'A little forethought could have saved this consternation,' Wren added haughtily from where she was perched on a branch of the fallen tree, somehow managing to frown disapprovingly at the sheer _outdoors-ey_ nature of their surroundings.

James shot her a rude look, professor or not.

'Could we summon it out?' Tristan asked over his shoulder. He had been squatting down at the far end of the clearing, in deep discussion with Hagrid over the nature of a pair of unknown tracks that crossed their path up ahead.

'Of _course_ you couldn't,' Wren sneered. 'Buried under a hundred tons of rock, not even Merlin himself could retrieve that! Do any of you _ever_ use the tiny little brain you so obviously have to share?'

Harry shot James a look, and jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. 'Is she always this unhelpful?'

'I'm right _here!'_

'Unfortunately for us,' James muttered none-too-quietly.

'The insolence!' James had the feeling Wren wanted to march right over and cuff his ear, but there was a particularly muddy puddle between them, which she was eyeing dubiously. 'Ten points from Gryffindor!' she cried instead.

'I think,' Cat suddenly added, pulling from her mouth some kind of oddly-shaped, lumpy nut. She scowled at it briefly before tossing it away over her shoulder. 'That we are outside the reach of the Hogwarts wards.'

'Your point?'

Cat studied Wren quizzically, with her head tilted to the side. 'Well, can you even take house points, outside of Hogwarts?'

'Of course I can! And you'll have detention to back it up if you don't keep quiet!' The frustration in Wren's voice was exacerbated by the fact that she'd made to stand up, but caught her dress – yes, dress – on a particularly stubborn branch, tearing a hole down one side.

'Come on, let's keep moving,' Harry finally said, shouldering his pack. James followed suit. 'Oh, and Miss Sayre?'

'Finally, some manners!'

''Ware your neck, this last leg of the journey.'

Wren clapped both hands to the pale, exposed flesh of her throat. 'What is it? Werewolves? Vampires? Morgana protect us – is it _rats?'_

Harry shot James a sly wink as they started moving once more. 'Nothing so dastardly as rats. I simply worry about how you'll manage to carry that big old head of yours the remainder of the way, what with all that ego stuffed in there.'

Wren started making a multitude of choking sounds. She huffed, spluttered, hissed and, eventually, fell silent. If James didn't know any better, he'd almost think she was sulking. At the very least, she spoke not a word as they headed out on the last leg of their journey.

* * *

Pure and utter elation filled Caspar Helstrom's chest, as he made his way, together with his long-time friend and accomplice, Dannil Pyke, through the undergrowth of the Forbidden Forest. Or, at least, it _would_ be filling his chest if these cursed wines and brambles would stop snagging at his robe for just one minute.

Of _course_ James Potter would choose the most _inconvenient_ place of all to stage his secret meeting. The wily toerag didn't even have the decency to stage his little coup in the comfort of the castle. Honestly, it was like the boy was half-feral. Why else would he _willingly_ be capering about out here in the mud and the wet?

' _Diffindo!'_ Caspar barked, slashing through a particularly grabby patch of blackberry that blocked their path. Scratches and cuts all over the backs of Caspar's hands spoke to a previous encounter with the accursed stuff which hadn't gone quite so smoothly.

But he could push it all aside, for now. He'd weather even this discomfort, if it meant catching James Potter in the act. He was attempting to stage an uprising, Caspar was sure of it. Why else would he be repeatedly sneaking off to stage secret meetings in the dead of night? And with Hagrid and Wren Sayre, no less – a half-breed, wholly-incompetent professor, and an obvious pet of Renshaw's – the two staff most likely to be (rightfully, of course) removed by the incumbent, Ministry-approved head of Hogwarts.

It had been only too easy for Caspar to figure out, what with the help of a few extra watchful eyes sympathetic to the Glorious Sacrifice's cause. The most recent sighting of Harry Potter on school grounds was enough to confirm it. The deluded fools thought that _Potter_ would be a fit Headmaster? Idiots, the lot of them!

And now Caspar had them trapped. He'd seen Potter, Macmillan and Lovegood sneaking off as the crowds made their way down to the Quidditch Pitch. He'd spied Weasley and the other hangers-on trying to make a distraction.

From there, it had been a simple matter of alerting the core members of the Glorious Sacrifice. He'd stationed a few on watch, and at his signal – golden sparks shot high into the sky – they'd bring the might of their group, backed up by the iron first of the Ministry of Magic, to bear on Potter and his little band of dissidents.

A sudden whistle snagged Caspar's attention. It was Dannil, far off to his left. He seemed to have taken a sudden turn and just about left Caspar to wander straight on, into a particularly gloomy section of Forest where the shadows seemed so dense as to actually have a physical substance. He shuddered, and shot Dannil a disapproving stare. He ought to have been warned much sooner.

Nevertheless, Caspar managed to regain the correct path in next to no time, and with only a few curses uttered at some unfortunate shrubbery. But not even a tear in his finest robes could dampen his spirit, for James Potter was just ahead, and Caspar had a party to ruin.

* * *

The group gathered at the point where the forest ended, a dozen or so paces from the edge of the cliffs. A few thorny bushes and knee-high shrubs stirred in a gentle breeze, beckoning them onwards.

'Hold here, everyone,' Harry Potter commanded. 'Nobody moves out into the open until the last possible second. We know these beasts are _probably_ asleep, but the last thing we want is another one of you to be carried off.'

Harry was ostensibly speaking to the group at large, but James didn't miss the warning glares he was receiving specifically.

He _needed_ to get that Locket.

At a signal from Harry, Hagrid produced a collection of earmuffs from a pouch slung over his back. They looked a little aged and careworn to James' untrained eye, but Harry assured them that they'd do the trick – so long as nobody grabbed the pink fluffy pair.

There must have been magic in them, for the moment James popped them over his ears, all sense of sound was immediately shut off. He couldn't even hear himself speaking.

They all held on to the earmuffs while Harry outlined the plan one last time. Hagrid wound the crank on his gigantic crossbow. The bolt he mounted to it looked big enough to skewer an Erumpent. James made sure to keep a few other members of the party between him and it for the remainder of the talk.

'Cat, on my signal, you create some cover for us, and we'll sneak out to the edge of the cliffs. James, you detonate the explosives, and Tristan, the _moment_ we see the Goldeneyes appear, spring the net. Wren and I will take it from there-'

'I hardly think I shall need your assistance.'

Harry rolled his eyes in James' direction. 'Nevertheless.'

Wren huffed, and rolled up the sleeves of her dress, fishing out from her pocket a pair of soft, black, leather gloves. Every inch of them was covered in minute, archaic text that swam and shifted uncomfortably under James' scrutiny.

'Hagrid, if things get out of hand…'

'Aye, Nancy and I will take care of it,' he patted the crossbow fondly. _Nancy?_ James shuddered to think.

'Right then. Kattala, if you'd lead the way?'

Cat slowly drew her wand. James gave her an encouraging look, and she nodded back, her short blonde hair bobbing with the motion. At Harry's nod, they all donned their earmuffs together. It was hand signals from here on in. It had begun.

Cat waved her wand in a lopsided cross motion, and what had been a small, gnarled stump only a moment before, transfigured into a neatly folded pile of ropes and mesh, part gathered up above the cliff, part draping down out of sight below. The net, folded and prepared by Fred only a few days prior. Tristan's brainchild. Next to James, he was eyeing it with a small frown on his face. James tried to ask if something was amiss, but couldn't get through the noise-deadening effects of the earmuffs.

Next, Cat made a series of complex twirls and spirals with her wand. A small, green light began to blossom before her, at about waist height. James saw her lips moving, but recognised none of the incantations. Eventually, her movements stopped, and she cupped the light in both of her hands, bringing it up to her face. James saw her lips purse as she blew the little glowing sphere out into the open stretch of ground ahead of them.

The light sunk down to the level of the scant few shrubs that clung to life near the cliff tops. It bobbed and skipped its way over towards the pile of netting gathered at the precipice. And with every duck and weave, with every little mangled branch it touched, every blade of grass it brushed, _life,_ sprang forth in its wake. Thick, verdant bushes sprouted suddenly, easily two, three times James' height. Thorny branches were replaced by dense, soft foliage. Saplings with broad, leafy canopies clambered up to stand sentinel over the proceedings. Even the grass itself grew thick and lush and springy underfoot.

A veritable tunnel of rich greenery awaited them. It provided not only cover out of the line-of-sight of any would-be predator, but also, importantly, a physical barrier in the form of densely-packed, wrist-thick branches that would tangle any wings and stop any claws directed their way.

The group hurried out beneath their new-found cover. Even Wren couldn't stop herself from giving Cat an appreciative stare.

James peered down, over the edge, one arm wrapped around the trunk of a sapling willow, to keep the vertigo at bay. The drop was enough to keep all of them a few steps back. Behind him, Wren was wrapping her wrists through coils of rope linked to the net. The sigils on her gloves glowed faintly, and James noticed her lips moving ceaselessly as she manoeuvred into position. Eventually, she nodded to Harry, who laid a hand on James' shoulder.

James didn't need his ears to know that his father was counting him down. Three… two… one.

' _Perfringo.'_

A few hundred feet below them, dozens of tiny clay balls, hidden in wand-carved sconces in the rock, shattered together.

There was no noise, through their magically-enhanced earmuffs, but the _feeling_ more than made up for it, as the ground beneath their feet… shrugged. The ripples staggered all six of them, and parts of the very earth under them slumped, failing along unseen fault lines and fractures through the brittle limestone. Cat grabbed James' sleeve for support, and Tristan found himself on hands and knees, his left foot suddenly six inches lower than his right. Wave after wave of detonations shook them, until finally all was still, and the first hint of the scale of their destruction showed its face in the form of a great, whirling plume of dust, expelled form the caves which housed the Monsters.

Harry, with one arm looped through the bough of a sapling, was peering recklessly over the edge. James could see his father squinting to make out shapes in the thickening dust and debris that was fast gathering into a huge, shifting veil. A violent slashing movement of Harry's arm – he'd sighted them.

Tristan gestured wildly with his wand. His face was contorted in fierce concentration. James looked on as the pile of netting sprang forth and leapt hungrily into the midst of the dust. It angled of its own accord toward a pair of dark, swirling shapes right at the heart.

Wren was screaming a massive string of incantations, unheard by all of them, but clearly effective, as the light from her gloves flowed down the Enchanted net, and brilliant purple lightning leapt eagerly towards the shadowy shapes.

But it wasn't Hogwarts' youngest professor that had caught James' attention, it was the desperate, helpless look on the face of Tristan Macmillan, and the sheer horror in his eyes.

'- didn't trigger properly-!'

James pried his earmuffs off for less than a second, before Hagrid's massive hands clamped them back down from behind.

James' mind raced. His eyes darted back and forth between Harry, who was spotting through the dust, Wren, who was battling ever-more violently with the strands of the net, and Hagrid, who – at first sign of disaster – had shuffled forward to the front of the group, and was readying his crossbow, Nancy.

An idea came to James, and he shuffled his own way forward, careful to avoid putting too much more weight on the crumbly soil near the cliff face. ' _Ventus!'_ he cried, levelling his wand at the billowing dust cloud below.

The distance was great, and the effects of his spell much-diminished, but he was able to carve enough of a path through the dust to catch a glimpse of the carnage wrought below.

The great, black strands of the net had unfolded to a size much larger than James could have thought. Ragged, iridescent bolts of purplish lightning popped and crackled within it, coursing through and over the body of one of the Goldeneyes snared within. But the other, the second monster, was only halfway-ensnared. One wing, and half of its body were weighted down by the netting. The lightning lashed its flanks, and each time it did, James saw the beast throw its unhuman head back to unleash a cry unheard by any of them.

More and more light was flowing down the rope that Wren had wrapped about her wrists. Steam was beginning to rise from her body, and she wept ears of blood from eyes unseeing through their razor-sharp focus. But there seemed nothing she could do to right the trailing, fluttering tail of the net that had caught upon itself and dragged uselessly down below where the Monsters wheeled and screeched, scratching futilely at the cliff face, catching little more than sand and shrubs.

Somewhere between Tristan's complicated design, and Fred's unfamiliarity with setting it up, something had gone wrong. If Tristan had been able to prepare the trap himself, perhaps…

But these were useless wishes, and James wasn't the only one who gasped as the second Monster broke free. One last, feeble bolt of lightning sprung forth to lick its underbelly, but this was paid no heed, as hateful golden eyes turned towards the group.

Wren's face was crumpled in an unending scream, and thick, acrid smoke was curling away from the spot where her gloves touched the net. The Monster within it still struggled wildly, hale and healthy despite the constant barrage of powerful magic. Harry lay a hand on her shoulder, and James watched as a glow surrounded first his father, and then Wren, herself, before bursting forth through her ruined, gloved hands, and down to the trapped monster below. Red-gold flames now joined in the struggle with the purple-black lightning. It could have been James' wilful imagination, but he thought he saw the creature beginning to tire.

But it was the second, freed creature that had gripped everybody else's attention. It had spied them, despite their cover, and was hurtling up through the air towards the group. Hagrid set his feet and braced his massive bulk, placing himself between the Monster and the children. He lowered Nancy in preparation. The wicked, spiked bolt sat ready, his finger hovering millimetres above the trigger.

But as he made to fire, James barrelled forwards and slammed into Hagrid's arm, forcing the crossbow high and the shot wide. Hagrid stared down in shock and frustration, gesticulating wildly. But James paid him no heed.

He'd seen what this Monster held in its talons.

A shining, glittering gemstone, at first difficult to make out against the pale blue of the sky, but as it had turned upwards towards them, he'd spied it set against the backdrop of the forest below.

If Hagrid killed the Monster, the Locket would be lost forever in the valley below. But if James could just get a chance…

The creature was nearly upon them, now. Harry and Wren both were locked in their own battle, seemingly oblivious to what was happening around them. Sweat had plastered Harry's hair to his face, and the strain of intense concentration screwed his features into a determined mask. The tears of blood flowed freely from Wren's eyes now, and her hands were little more than a bloody, smoking mess amongst the tangle of ropes wrapped around them.

Cat and Tristan had taken to firing spells at the Monster streaking up towards them. Tristan carved off a section of the cliff below that sent the beast swerving wildly at the last minute. Hagrid was frantically trying to ready another bolt, but they could all tell he'd be too late. James tucked his wand into his belt. The others looked at him as if he'd gone mad.

He smiled back. He hadn't even started.

Then the Monster was upon them. It flared its wings as it crested the cliff face, giving them a brief glimpse of its full, appalling profile.

James had less than a second to take in the vast, swooping wingspan, many times his own height. The thick, faceted scales that glittered down its sides and neck, the soft, down-like fur of the creature's belly and the hooked, wicked talons that looked able to slice through flesh and crush bone. Those glowing golden eyes turn towards them. The part-human, part-bestial face was all the more terrifying for its half-cast nature. James could _recognise_ its hatred.

But there was little enough time to dwell on his own trepidation. Whilst Harry and Wren battled the lone, trapped Monster, Hagrid was distracted reloading his crossbow, and both Tristan and Cat were frozen in momentary fright, James charged. One thing filled his mind, strong enough to burn all else away, all doubts and fear and hesitation: Get the Locket.

He collided with the Monster's midriff, hard, and instantly threw his arms wide around the rough, biting scales of its neck. He found purchase by twisting his fingers through the coarse feathers that ran in a spine down the Monster's back. He dug in and held on for dear life.

The sudden addition of James' weight caused the beast to fall. He felt its weight shifting beneath him. Sensed the moment of disorientation – something he and the Monster shared – as flashes of green and blue and buff-grey whirled past on either side. There was a vibration from the warm, feathered chest beneath him that he recognised as the Goldeneyes' keening cry, though still no sound penetrated the protection of his earmuffs.

A sudden flaring of wings threatened to break James' hold. One arm slipped free and he hung, one three-fingered, perilous grip was all that separated him from certain death. A swooping blackness filled James' periphery, and brilliant light filled his vision – a lightning bolt from Wren's net – they'd strayed too close. It collided with the Monster's wing with force sufficient to rattle even James' bones through their tenuous bond. It left his hairs on end, and an afterimage burned into his eyes.

But it had provided distraction enough for James to regain purchase, and with great effort – as he and the Goldeneyes resumed their plummet once more, he managed to lever himself up onto its back.

As he swung his leg over, a glancing blow from the beast's talons found his thigh, suddenly exposed. The cold bite cared not a whit for his stiff jeans, nor for the soft, giving flesh that they protected. Something grated against bone, and James added his own cry to the wail of the beast beneath him.

As they levelled out above the treetops on the valley floor, a thick streamer of blood was trailing behind them. The wound pulsed angrily, threatening James' focus and drawing his attention again and again as he tried to scrabble for his wand. The wind was tugging James' hair, roaring thunderously through his ears-

His ears. The earmuffs had been knocked free during the struggle. The Goldeneyes gave a cry as they swerved to avoid a tree. Though it wasn't its true death-knell, the sound grated on James' ears like nothing human possibly could. It was anathema to sound, to sensation. It brought forth an uneasy, nauseous feeling deep in James' stomach.

Their angle changed, upwards once more, back towards where the one stranded monster still fought the bonds of the net. It was lower in the air now, dragged almost entirely up against the face of the cliff. James managed to grab his wand, and with only a faint wince and a whisper of hesitation, he shouted, ' _Discutum Auris!'_

Sharp, stabbing pain in his ears preceded an utter, pressing silence. James had researched the spell on his own, as a last resort. He hadn't bothered to look and see if it was reversible. A part of him had known, somehow, that to get the Locket back, it would come to this.

Upwards, their path continued. ' _Reducto!'_ James cried, deaf to his own frantic shouts. ' _Impedimenta! Diffindo!'_

Nicks and scratches were all he could manage against the tough, overlapping scales that protected the beast's back. He aimed for the head and missed, the sinuous, curved neck bobbing and weaving with the flight, tossing James around in his makeshift saddle.

He could see the copse from which spellfire was raining down upon the other Monster. Could see Hagrid, crossbow lowered, but hesitant. Cat and Tristan both froze with wands in the air, for fear of hitting him. They were powerless as the Monster bore down upon them. A sudden icy realisation gripped James as he realised it had been all his fault-

Movement from his periphery. The Monster sensed it too, and suddenly changed track. The adjustment jarred James, he lost grip for a moment, slid forward, and the upbeat of a wing collected him underneath his chin. He bit through his tongue, blood pooled in his mouth, and for a few moments, his vision was filled with naught but bright lights.

He felt a hum beneath him, as the Monster let forth its Cry. A sudden, jarring thud. Scrabbling, frantically beating wings. The feathers in his grip snapped this way and that as the Monster's head whipped back and forth. Then a lurch, a sudden rush of hot air, blackness, and then calm, once more.

* * *

Caspar couldn't _believe_ that they'd lost the trail. It was like the night they'd been hunting James under his veil of invisibility all over again. One minute, clear as day, were the tracks before them. The next, nothing.

He blamed Dannil for it, of course. He had been the one to take on the scouting duties. Caspar had, foolishly, trusted him. If you wanted a job done properly…

'This way,' Caspar barked, gesturing at the fork to their left.

If he was completely honest, he'd been utterly and helplessly lost, up until a few minutes prior, when he'd stumbled into a clearing and found footprints in the soft mud, as well as a paper wrapper from some kind of sweet. Up ahead, he could see the forest beginning to thin, the gaps between the boles of the giant trees widening just enough to let in the first tentative rays of afternoon sunlight.

He tried to hide his sigh of relief from a sulky Dannil, who was trailing in his wake.

They'd reached the edge of the forest. Ahead of them, a narrow, cleared strip ran parallel to the edge of what seemed to be a giant cliff. For some unknown reason, Caspar was suddenly assailed by a sense of dread, and froze up, still within the tree line, unwilling to step out and break cover.

To his right, along the cliff's edge a way, spellfire suddenly shot out from a small copse of trees that hugged the precipice.

 _Got you now, Potter._

Signalling behind him, he bade Dannil go on ahead to check out the disturbance. Some lingering unease was coiling uncomfortably in Caspar's stomach, though he couldn't quite put a finger on it. It was as if some foul malaise hung thick in the air, threatening to overwhelm him with terror.

Dannil grumbled on his way past, as was his wont. He remained sour from Caspar's taking of the reins – his prerogative as leader of the Glorious Sacrifice.

And leader he was, indeed. Within the walls of Hogwarts, he was practically royalty. His mother had, after all, began the movement herself. And, in absolute secrecy, had manufactured the overthrow of the Potter-Weasley-Granger stranglehold on positions of power within the Ministry. Now, it was Caspar's turn to do the same to their children.

He smiled to himself as he drew his wand and prepared the spell to summon the remainder of his followers down upon Potter's paltry party.

A great, rushing sound snared Caspar's attention, like a howling gale trapped within a tunnel, and then from over the lip of the cliff, came the most heinous monster that Caspar had ever seen.

Half-scaled, half-feathered, it bore talons longer than Caspar's forearm, and rows of needle-like fangs bristled within its snapping jaws. Searing golden eyes pierced through Caspar and rooted him to the spot, frozen in abject terror.

 _And Potter was riding it!_

There, on its back, Potter was clinging to a handful of feathers. The monster turned to face them – obviously at Potter's command – and let out a cry that had Caspar curled into a ball, hugging his knees, before he even realised he'd fallen.

Through eyes suddenly filled with tears, Caspar could only witness, as Dannil – screaming his own terror – stood frozen out in the open. The monster descended upon him. There was a spray of blood and several wet thumps, then the screaming stopped. Finally, it stopped.

It was a long time before Caspar was able to push himself to shaky feet, stepping out from his concealed position within the trees, he leaned over and vomited when he saw what was left of Dannil Pyke.

He raised his wand and fired off the golden sparks to gather the members of the Glorious Sacrifice to him. He'd _kill_ Potter for this, that was a promise.

* * *

James came to in some unremarkable section of the shifting, verdant sea that was the canopy of the Forbidden Forest. The Goldeneyes beneath him was still beating its wings tirelessly, evidently sinking into some kind of steady rhythm, given up on its earlier attempts to dislodge James.

He could feel each flap of the wings beneath him, the ripple of tensing muscle, the subtle corrections as they kept low above the treetops. When James had leapt, he'd envisaged this would be like riding an angry Jeffrey, but the sheer power in these monsters was far beyond anything he could have anticipated.

As the haze drifted off of his thoughts, James reached for his wand. _'Accio Locket!'_ he cried – or at least thought he did – for his ears were still ruined. He saw the Locket twitch, and the Beast's talons jerk in James' direction, but its grip held fast.

His attempt served to achieve little more than remind the Monster that James was, indeed, still there. It dropped into a sudden barrel roll that almost dislodged him. He felt the tendons in his fingers straining as he held desperately on.

' _Relashio!'_ ropes leapt from James' wand, wending their way around his left arm, and the Beast's neck and chest. He could feel it give another cry – this time, of anger – as James landed back in position with a bone-rattling _thump,_ lashed fast to its body.

Ahead, a dark, mirrored break in the Forest loomed large. The Black Lake. If James guessed correctly, the monster was angling towards the shrine of bones. The spot where James and his friends had fought off the Atlanteans in their second year – the place where the Goldeneyes kept bringing back dead offerings to their absent masters.

There was only one reason that it would be taking him there.

'Not bloody likely, you oversized chicken,' James cursed, readying his wand for another attack.

An idea was forming in his head. _Almost_ as wild as jumping on the back of a giant, flying, deadly monster above a hundred-foot cliff. Almost.

They left the forest canopy behind, and the monster began a broad, circuitous arc out over the lake, angling back towards the dreaded rocky outcrop. As they approached the deepest, darkest part of the water, James kicked his legs over and slid down off one side of the Monster, relying on his conjured ropes to bind him in place.

The move bent his elbow at an awkward angle, and the ropes immediately began cutting in to his flesh, scraping and burning with every movement, every wingbeat. His legs dangled freely over the water thirty feet below, but more importantly, the move had brought him into range of the Beast's snapping jaws.

' _Reducto!'_ James cried. Blue-green blood sprayed, and the Monster gave a keening cry. Their trajectory stuttered, and they lost half their height as James was forced to repel its first attack.

Twisting in his bindings to get a better angle at the beast's talons, James caught a glimpse of the shimmering blue of Rain's Locket. It was held tantalizingly close, but just out of his reach every time, no matter how he strained and contorted his body to try and reach it.

Ahead of them, the lakeshore – and James' fate – approached.

Grimacing in anticipation, James gave one, final, mighty swing. The ropes bit hard into the flesh of his left forearm. He felt his elbow strain and bend, until with a faint _pop_ that he felt rather than heard, it gave, and agony flooded his left arm.

' _Diffindo!'_ he cried, levelling his wand at the Monster's leg.

His spell hit true, digging deep into the flesh, sending a spray of aquamarine blood all over James' front. It fell in great droplets to the lake below. But still the Beast held on, though one taloned foot now dangled from little more than a tattered strip of flesh.

And its retaliation was fierce. A flash of movement in James' periphery, and sudden, searing pain in his shoulder. Were it not for his makeshift bonds wrapping his left forearm fast, he would have long since let go. As it was, the beast's movement shook his battered body back and forth. He felt like a pebble, caught in an unassailable landslide, buffeted by the wind and the pain so that it took every single ounce of concentration to raise his wand again…

' _Diffindo_!' his spell flashed hot and white, blue-green blood sprayed, mingled with leathery grey flesh as it tumbled towards the churning waters below. And within it, a furtive flash of the clearest blue. ' _Accio Locket!'_

The moment he felt his fingers close around the hard, crystalline surface of the Locket, James' attention shifted to his bonds. He saw the beast swinging around for another raking attack. His neck and head were now perilously exposed. The shore of the Lake was fast approaching. He could now make out the pile of bones gathered on the rock.

' _Finite!'_ the ropes vanished, James left arm flopped freely, and he dropped from the sky. He twisted mid-air as he did, and caught a glimpse of the beast's soft, downy underbelly. ' _Confringo!'_

The concussive blast of his spell gave a punch to James' stomach. There was an explosion of feathers, a skittering of scales, and a rain of thick, cloying blood. James closed his eyes, and snapped his mouth shut as the liquid coated him, seeking every unwanted entrance. He had only a second to think about how _gross_ that was, before he collided with the water and every ounce of breath was driven from his chest.

He struggled and spluttered, fighting to both regain his breath and also not inhale lungfuls of water. His one good hand clutched desperately to both his wand, and to Rain's Locket, which was emanating an overwhelming sense of relief. His left arm was drifting feebly beside him, the pain from his elbow driving knives into his flesh with every forced movement.

It was with great effort that he eventually dragged himself ashore, leaving a trail of multi-coloured blood – some of it his own. He coughed and retched, vomiting up the water he's inadvertently swallowed in his struggles. His throat burned. His eyes stung. His wounded leg was shaky, his left arm a dead weight of agony. If he just closed his eyes for a moment, perhaps he could sleep off the worst of it…

The toe of a boot nudged his good shoulder. James strained to raise his gaze, and a wide smile burst across his features as he saw Tristan Macmillan and Kattala Lovegood standing over him, both beaming like they'd just got their Hogwarts letter.

Tristan's mouth moved, but James only shrugged, pointing at his ears. He pushed himself up onto shaky feet, gladly accepting the support from Cat.

'Can't hear, mate,' James shrugged. 'Blew my ears out so the bastard couldn't get me.'

Cat drew her wand, and waved it in a complex little pattern. 'Better?' she asked.

'I dunno,' James responded. 'I'll tell you once the pain goes away.' His eyes were watering with the ferocity of it, but by Merlin, it was good to be able to hear again.

'Where's your giant chicken?' Tristan asked. 'We managed to follow you for a while, but lost you when you went out over the Lake.'

'Probably shaking hands with the Giant Squid about now,' James grumbled, and then spat. 'Gave me a few parting gifts, though.'

'By the sacred Valley of Helga's cleavage, you _killed_ that thing?'

'Poke a big enough hole into something and it'll die eventually. Where's Dad?'

'He and Hagrid took Wren and the other Goldeneyes straight to France… or wherever it is they needed to go, they were a bit sketchy on the details. Net finally worked. Took a bit out of Wren though, by the end of it she was almost as beat up as you. Those ropes stripped the skin right off her hands.'

James used his good hand to roll up the sleeve on his left arm, revealing red, raw skin criss-crossed with burn marks left by his own ropes.

'We'll have to trade stories, then.'

'Blimey, but you look like you've been shoved off the third-floor balcony. Let's get you to the Hospital Wing.'

James nodded. He let Cat prop his damaged arm up around her shoulders, and Tristan slipped an arm around his waist from the other side. They turned back towards the castle, but only made it three short, shuffling steps before a brilliant flaring of blue light form the Locket enveloped them and tore James' mind away altogether.

Inky blackness washed over him, filling his vision from every angle, leaving him blind, senseless to the world. He tried to cry out, before realising he didn't have a throat. He didn't even have a _body._ The pain had left him. He was floating in a darkness that was slowly coalescing into shapes.

A blurry grey smudge became splashed with rosy gold, and Rain's body swam into view. He saw her from above. She was strapped down to a table, arms and legs and head. A mountain of magical equipment surrounded her, whirring and puffing and spinning in a maelstrom of activity whose function James could not discern. Behind her, a stony arch was the only other decoration in the dark, cavernous space.

'James!' Rain's eyes snapped up. She looked around wildly – aware of his presence yet unable to see him all the same.

 _I'm here,_ he sent her. Though he couldn't truly speak, he had the distinct impression that his message was heard nonetheless.

'You have to help me, James. They're going to- they're going to kill me. And worse, they're going to unleash _her.'_

 _Where are you?_

'No- no, go away!' Rain's eyes shot to her left, to a corner of inky blackness that was not revealed to James in this vision. The vague sense of footsteps approaching sent a wellspring of dread bursting forth in what James would have described as his chest, had he possessed one at that moment.

 _Please, Rain!_

'You can't- you mustn't! Please!'

 _RAIN!_

She tore her eyes away from the other figure, finally looking at directly where James' consciousness hovered, and the moment their eyes locked, James was assailed by a sending of Rain's own making.

The force of it pushed James backwards, upwards, away from the dark archway room, through a corridor, up flights of stairs, barrelling through doorways and unfamiliar rooms, all a haze of colours and sensations. He charged through the golden grille of an elevator door, along a tiled corridor, a broad, deserted thoroughfare, the glinting gold of a giant statue, until he burst free from the building entirely and was hovering over the burgeoning glow of a city shrugging on its glittering night-time cloak – glinting lights shimmered, spun, and were suddenly gone.

James came around with a gasp and a great, heaving breath. The Locket in his hand was still hot to the touch, and it thrummed now with a rapid, racing heartbeat, in time with his own.

'Bloody hell, mate,' Tristan swore. 'I thought we'd lost you.'

'No such luck,' James smiled wryly. 'But I know where Rain is. She's being held in the Department of Mysteries, beneath the Ministry of Magic. And I also know that we need to rescue her, _now._ Or else there might not be anything left to rescue.'

To their immense credit, neither Tristan nor Cat batted an eyelid at this sudden, outlandish assertion. They simply grabbed James under each arm and began marching double-time up towards the castle.

'Ill head to the library and fetch Cassie,' Tristan said. 'Kattala, you head to Gryffindor tower and get the others. Then we… James, how do we get all the way to the Ministry of Magic?'

'Leave that to me,' James said with a grin.

'But we mustn't be seen' Cat added. 'If the Ministry is holding her, then Merriweather and her cronies are probably behind it, too. I _knew_ they were evil, I just knew it!'

'Good idea,' James agreed. 'They probably don't know that we know, but best to keep a low profile. Don't attract any attention.'

They both nodded.

The doors to the Entrance Hall were just ahead. The setting sun bathed them in a warm glow that made the weathered oak seem to be dripping in gold. James reached out a nervous, shaking hand.

'Ready?' he asked.

'Ready,' came dual replies.

James winced as he took his own weight onto his injured leg. With a firm set to his jaw, and a determined gleam in his eye, he shoved the doors aside.

And was greeted by a wall of students, all with their wands drawn.

'There they are!' Caspar Helstrom's gleeful voice cried from the front of the pack.

' _Incarcerous!'_ barked Calantha Merriweather.

' _Expelliarmus!'_ cried Alabaster Shelby.

All three of them found their hands shackled, and their wands flying across the room into the waiting grip of the leering Ministry overseer. A small cheer sounded from Caspar's group. Beside him, James heard Tristan utter a curse.

'The Glorious Sacrifice…' he whispered.

'Potter, Macmillan, Lovegood,' Calantha Merriweather barked. 'Consider yourselves under arrest for the murder of Dannil Pyke, and attempted murder of Caspar Helstrom.'

All three of them stood, rooted to the spot, equal expressions of shock writ across their faces.

'Come with us,' Shelby growled, marching over to the group and shoving them along ahead. 'Your expulsion from Hogwarts is a given. The length of your stay in Azkaban, however… now that is still up for debate. Calantha thinks it should be _lo-ong_. I, on the other hand, think it should be very, very _short.'_


	36. Archway

Into an empty classroom, James, Tristan and Cat were marched. Alabaster Shelby kept an iron grip on James' shoulder, digging his fingers into deep gouges left by the Goldeneyes that still leaked blood through his t-shirt. James' leg could barely support his weight. He tried to avert his gaze from the ragged gash in his jeans and the soft, wet, red flesh that was exposed beneath. He stumbled as they crossed the threshold to the room, and had to be forcibly thrown into a chair.

The shackles on their wrists leapt out to bind each of them to the chair upon which they sat. James felt manacles close tightly around his ankles, biting into skin above his muddied, ruined trainers.

Merriweather, Shelby and the two nameless Ministry Watchers filed in to the room. Of the students, only Caspar was allowed to enter. The door slammed shut behind them with an air of finality. A squelching sound, and the chanting and jeering from the students of the Glorious Sacrifice was instantly sealed off. James didn't want to think too hard on whether the spell was meant to keep the outside sound out, or the inside sound in…

'It's the _ennnd_ of the road for you three,' Calantha Merriweather drawled. Her voice practically quivered with excitement. The hand she held to her breast was actually shaking. 'Your parents were no match for _mmm_ e, Potter. What made you think that you would be the same? What made you think you could _possibly_ stage any kind of coup under the watchful gaze of your benign and just _MMM_ inistry of Magic-'

'We weren't-!'

'Summoning foul beasts with which to attack the Castle-'

'We didn't-!'

'Using Dark Magic, no doubt. Oh, the punishment for that will be _mmm_ ost severe… But first, we'll need to take some of your blood.'

' _What?!'_

All three of them struggled against their bonds as Alabaster Shelby approached, transfiguring three small, glass phials from a stack of parchment nearby.

'Oh, yes. Dark magic, unfortunately, necessitates a rather… _uncomfortable_ punishment. It's rather a dated little ritual… frowned upon, more than actually outlawed. _Mmm…_ but I've been telling them to bring it back for years. And I think the crime is deserving.'

'What bloody crime?!' Tristan yelled, jerking and writhing fruitlessly against the iron chains that held him.

'Potter killed Dannil!' Caspar roared, lunging to the fore. He swung a wild punch at James' face, but Shelby was quick enough to catch him before it landed.

'Steady, on, young Caspar. Not yet.'

'What are you talking about?' James sneered. He winced as Shelby cut an incision in his forearm, and eyed the thick pool of blood that welled up and obediently flowed forth into the glass phial.

'You, on that- that _monster!_ ' Caspar spat. 'You attacked Dannil! You- you tore him apart.'

James was too stunned to speak. Caspar's eyes were wild and feral. Though James knew for certain he'd done no such thing, he could also tell Casper was adamant he was telling the truth. There could be no faking that animal fear. Back on the clifftop, there had been a moment where James was knocked senseless upon the Goldeneye's back. Could it be…?

Oh, by the Founders, _what had he done?_

'It's okay, Caspar. Darling, you're safe now.' Calantha Merriweather lay an arm around her son's shoulders, glaring absolute murder at James.

There was absolutely no way they would explain themselves out of this one. And with his father somewhere in France, with no way to reach him, he couldn't count on anybody to come save the day.

Far above them, somewhere in the heart of the castle, a low, thunderous rumble sounded. It sounded like a toll of mourning, perhaps, for James and his friends.

'The rest of your lot are being rounded up as we speak,' Shelby sneered, stoppering the last of the three phials, job now complete. 'We assume you were all complicit.'

James didn't even waste his breath on arguing. After what Caspar had witnessed, there was no way he could convince them of the truth. Some threshold, some hitherto unbreakable barrier had been shattered, allowing a descent into utter madness on the part of their captors. There were no words on the planet that could bring the three of them back now.

Another ponderous groaning sound came from above them, like a great groan from the chest of a giant. It reverberated through the walls and the floor, even up through the legs of James' chair.

Suddenly, the door to their room burst open, smashing against the wall with ferocity.

Professor Longbottom stood there, framed by the last of the evening light, a dark expression upon his face.

Of course! Professor Longbottom could still save them!

'I hear you are holding two of my students captive, without my knowledge or permission, Calantha.'

'Well yes, professor. You see, they were caught in the act of trying to raise a coup to overthrow the Ministry's hold on Hogwarts. Fearing that their secret would be let out, Potter here attacked – and _killed_ – a fellow student, with a creature summoned by Dark Magic, no less. We are using the authority bestowed upon us by the Ministry as official Overseers to exact a suitable punishment.'

Something switched in Professor Longbottom's face. Some sort of light flickered out behind his eyes, and when he turned to regard James, he suddenly looked overwhelmingly tired.

'Is this true, James?'

'No, professor! We were trying to help our… our _old friend!_ That's all. It's as we spoke about earlier in the year, you must remember!'

'What is this, that he speaks of, Master Longbottom?' Shelby's voice was a threatening growl.

Professor Longbottom looked from James to the Ministry Overseer and back again. His response was calm and measured. 'I haven't the faintest idea.'

James' blood ran cold as their final hope withered and died before them.

With the door hanging broken and ajar, another of the distant rumblings reached them much more clearly. Only, this time, it sounded almost like an explosion with a wave of resonating echoes. Nobody in the room paid it any heed.

'I see you have taken a sample of their blood,' Professor Longbottom continued. 'I presume that is for the Blood-Binding Ritual?'

'It is warranted. The use of what is clearly Dark Magic necessitates Ministry control over their ability to cast spells. We will pursue this course with or without your blessing, Professor, so tread carefully now.'

Professor Longbottom studied Merriweather for a long moment. 'Very well. I find blood rituals barbaric, so you'll not have my blessing, but you have my permission. There is a ritual stone in the caretaker's office. If you give me the blood, I will take it and prepare. We can begin at your leisure.'

'Calantha Merriweather looked a little surprised, but nodded. 'Your assistance is noted, Professor. This is not the first time that you have proved surprisingly… cooperative, so far this year.'

 _Traitor,_ James scowled.

Professor Longbottom took the vials of blood, holding them carefully in one hand. Before he left the room, he turned to look back once over his shoulder.

'James, do you still have the rock I gave you? The gift from my mother.'

'Yes,' James spat. 'Never took it out of my back pocket. Though I don't know what that's got to do-'

'You should have held it, and reflected, before you did what you did today. It might have saved you. Keep it with you, for now. It might yet be of some comfort through what is to come.'

And with that, the professor was gone, and any hope James had of salvation went with him.

As if to punctuate the departure, another resounding _boom_ punched through the sudden silence. This one was long and rolling and lasted a handful of seconds. And was noticeably closer to hand.

'What's taking the others so long? Calantha Merriweather growled. 'Rounding up a few brats should be easy.'

'Shall we?' Shelby asked, with a nod towards the door and a pointed look at the two Watchers, both of whom had remained absolutely silent so far – as was their wont.

'Yes,' Calantha drawled. 'I don't think we need to see what is about to happen. Only the end result.'

'But I want to stay,' Caspar pleaded. 'I want to watch.'

'Trust me, darling, you don't.'

With that, the three hurried out, Shelby waving his wand to repair the door behind them as yet _another_ explosion rocked the castle.

James turned to the nearest of the Watchers – the old man.

'Listen, you don't have to-'

He cut off as – without warning – both Watchers grabbed Tristan and Cat by the heads, forcing their gaze upwards.

His friends started screaming and writhing against their bonds. They thrashed back and forth, throwing the whole of their weight against the chains, and the grips of the frail old Watchers.

But they would not be shaken free. James could see ropy tendons standing out on the back of their liver-spotted hands. Their yellowed teeth were set in a rictus snarl. Their eyes, wide open, glowed with a faint, bluish light.

When they pulled away, Cat slumped against the chains that held her, unconscious. Tristan snarled and spat bloody phlegm at the old woman. 'I'll have you for that,' he growled. But there was no force to his claim. He was shaken, empty, spent.

Both, now, turned on James. He felt their hands grip his cheeks. Chipped nails scratched at his skin. The moment his eyes met theirs, the cold dagger of their Legilimency was thrust into his mind, and his world erupted in pain unlike anything he'd felt before.

Images flashed through his mind's eye – scenes of the day just gone. James was swept along in the maelstrom, unable to throw up even the most paltry of defences. He could barely muster enough coherent thought to think _good, they'll see we're innocent,_ as the pain threatened to drive him mad in its all-encompassing embrace.

He saw the group gathered, ready to act. Saw Wren's magic flaring brilliant and powerful in the sky. His father's hand upon her shoulder, lending his strength. Saw Tristan and Cat fighting back, bone-chilling fear writ clearly on their faces. He saw his own mad dash at the Goldeneyes. The scene seemed to froze for a moment, fixated on Rain's Locket-

 _No!_

And then everything shattered around him, and James found himself back in the room, chained to a chair. He briefly wondered if he'd been successful in throwing off the attack, but as his fogged wits slowly coalesced, he came to the realisation that something fundamental had _shifted_ in the atmosphere within their room.

Calantha Merriweather, Alabaster Shelby, and Caspar Helstrom had returned. They were framed in the doorway with wands drawn. The door lay in splinters at their feet. On James' left, Cat stirred feebly, her eyelids fluttering open.

'What have you done?'

Calantha Merriweather's voice was cracked and broken, shot through with something James recognised as panic. He now saw that her bloodshot eyes were wild and wide. Nicks and scratches covered most of her face.

'What have you unleashed?'

'N-nothing', James stammered.

'Lies! I'll have you, boy! _Imperi_ -'

 _Crash!_

Where the wall above them had been standing, only smoking rubble and thick clouds of stagnant dust remained. The Ministry officials were thrown from their feet. James and Tristan both were knocked backwards off of their chairs, so that neither could see who belonged to the set of slow footsteps that were approaching.

'Reckon it's _pretty_ damn rude to be throwing a private party without sending Fred Weasley an invite. Everybody says, I'm always a _blast_.'

A feeble groan from somewhere to James' right was the only response.

Soft hands grabbed him by the shoulders, and Cassie's face came into view. She banished the chains that held him with a hasty _'Finite!'_ and set about doing what she could for the worst of his wounds, while Clip worked on freeing Tristan and Cat.

A stirring movement from within the mountain of rubble that had once been a wall caused Fred to stick a finger in his mouth and let out a piercing whistle. 'Sick 'em, boys,' he said with a grin.

Heavy, ponderous footfalls followed, and James watched in disbelief as a pair of Hogwarts suits of armour fell upon a struggling Calantha Merriweather, smothering her into submission once more.

'It's an absolute hellstorm out there,' Cassie breathed, shooting Fred a worried look. 'Like the end of the world. It can't be far off than when your father fought Voldemort-'

'Cassie, darling. You flatter me,' Fred said with a playful smile.

'He's got suits of armour, he's got portraits, hell, he's even got _torches_ chasing after these Glorious Sacrifice people. Anything that can be charmed, hexed or jinxed into causing mayhem is going haywire. It's hell, James. _Hell,_ I'm telling you!'

James smiled, prodding at the freshly knitted flesh of his upper thigh. The forced healing left him a little drained and chilled to the core, but otherwise hale. Cassie had even re-set his left elbow, so that only a dull ache remained, a pale shadow of the recent agony.

'You did say to rig the castle top to bottom,' Fred said with a shrug. 'I've been telling you I was ready for weeks now. Don't ever let it be said Fred Weasley does things by halves.'

James allowed himself a chuckle. 'Mate, I think you might actually be certifiably insane.'

They were all on their feet now, a resolute set to their shoulders and a dark glint in their eyes. Even Cassie and Clip held their wands at the ready in firm, determined grips.

James filled them in on the situation with Rain while Tristan riffled through an unconscious Alabaster Shelby's pockets for their wands.

'But how will we get there in time?' Fred asked.

'There's a gatehouse just outside the school grounds,' James told them. 'With a Floo-capable fireplace hooked up to the network. It runs direct to the Ministry. I was taken through it earlier in the year when I was, er, temporarily expelled.'

Cassie, unable to hold out any longer, gasped and rushed in to wrap James up in a hug. 'Oh, thank you, James, thank you,' she whispered over and over. 'We're going to save her!'

'Don't thank me just yet,' he warned. 'The real work hasn't even begun.'

'We should definitely get a move on,' Fred added a little sheepishly. 'At least before that troll statue on the second floor wakes up. I loaded him up with charms from here to Timbuktu but I er… never quite worked out how to switch him off again.'

'Wait,' Tristan said. 'What about Professor Longbottom. He's got our blood. If this lot wakes up and starts the Blood-Binding ritual…'

'We passed the professor on our way down,' Fred added. 'He was headed to Filch's old office.'

'Rain's more important,' James said. 'We've already lost too much time. If the ritual happens… then lets at least hope they wait until we've broken her free.'

Tristan and Cat both nodded gravely.

'Let's go,' James said, striding through the point where the door had once been.

There was only one short stairwell between them and the Entrance Hall. All above them, sounds of chaos echoed throughout the castle. The crack and pop of spellfire, metallic clangs and crashes, ripping, tearing sounds, shattering masonry, and through it all the cry of frantic voices. At this point, James wasn't even sure exactly who the Glorious Sacrifice thought they were fighting. But he was more than happy to leave them to it.

They scurried down onto the lowermost landing of the Grand Staircase. For the first time that day, James acknowledge the small, budding sensation in his chest, growing now that their path through the Entrance Hall was clear. It felt a lot like hope.

'Come on!' he urged, leading the way. He took the steps three at a time, heedless of his newly-repaired leg as he thundered his way to freedom.

The slap of their footfalls beat an uneven, staccato rhythm against the great flagstone floor. But as the rest of the group reached level ground, James spied movement to his left, and all six pulled up together, wands raised and chests heaving, as a figure emerged from the shadows that led down towards the dungeons.

'H-holly?' James stammered, aghast.

She strode out from the darkness and into the late-afternoon light bathing the Entrance Hall, not once pulling her eyes away from James' own. Her long, black hair was tied back in a loose tail. She wore loose, black silks. Billowing trousers bunched at her ankles, and the long sleeves of her shirt left only her hands exposed. Though James didn't spy her wand anywhere, he knew that they were the clothes she wore to fight.

'Where are you going, James?' she asked, calmly.

James' group had frozen in shock upon seeing her. And too late, James realised they'd allowed her to position herself between them and the exit. She stopped and turned to face them, her feet set shoulder width apart, her back to the setting sun that slanted in through the doors left ajar. Holly's shadow stretched out long before her. James took a noticeable step back from where it reached his own feet.

'Listen, Holly, I don't know what you've heard- I don't know what they're saying around the castle, but it's not true, any of it. We didn't-'

'Where are you going, James?' this time her voice was firmer, cooler.

'To- to rescue Rain. We could use your help, Holly.' James winced. The pleading in his voice was audible even to his own ears.

'I can't let you do that, James.'

His breath hitched in his throat. Beside him, he heard Cat gasp, and Cassie give a sad little whimper.

'Just stand aside, Holly. _Please._ Her life could be in danger. We need to help her.'

'No, James. You need to forget about her.'

'How can you say that? She's our _friend!'_

'So was I, and you've had no issues forgetting about me. But that's irrelevant, now. What matters is that I saw things, James. When I fought her last year. I saw _inside_ her. I saw a place I was never meant to see. And… it scared me James. It left me terrified.'

James hesitated. 'W-what are you talking about?'

'The magic I used against her – I shouldn't have. I wasn't ready to use it. I was barely able to control it. But I- I walked in her Shadow, James. And I _saw…_ I saw into her soul, or whatever twisted thing has taken the place of her soul. And it was black, James. Black, and cold as ice.

'I saw lives, and deaths. So many deaths. Fire, and blood, trailing in her wake. And ice, always, there was ice. Ice and water. Floods of it, drowning, people, cities, _worlds._ I don't know how, James. I don't know where or when, but I know it's true. She's not human, James. She's a _monster.'_

There was no anger in Holly's voice. None of the animosity, hatred or distrust she'd showed towards James throughout the year. There was only sadness. Sadness undercut with a plaintive, desperate tone. James couldn't help but believe she'd seen what she'd seen. But he knew Rain. He _knew_ that there was more to the story. He hadn't figured it out yet, but he would. And to do that, he needed to get her back. He wouldn't allow himself to be swayed. He'd made promises.

'She's our _friend,_ Holly. And I won't let her die.'

'Then I'm sorry, James. I can't let you go any further.'

From the moment Holly had appeared, James had been ready for it to come to this. He hefted his wand, and rolled his aching shoulders, wincing as the freshly-healed wounds protested.

'Spread out,' he gestured to the others. 'Six against one, the odds are against her. Keep moving, keep your eyes on her, and whatever you do, stay out of the shadows.'

Truth be told, James wasn't sure if the odds _were_ in their favour. He'd rather sixty against one when it came to Holly Brooks.

Sudden movement from behind Holly nearly caused James to fire off a spell. Beside him, Tristan's lips were moving rapidly, and the tip of his wand began to shine with a burgeoning glow, forcing back the early evening shadows.

Holly scowled as the grainy shadows began to fade into nothingness. Her attention fixed on Tristan, she suddenly darted her hand down towards her wand-

 _Thwack!_

Odette Mansfield, covered in mud and sweat, fresh from a post-match warm-down on the Quidditch pitch, smacked Holly across the head with the handle of her broomstick. Holly, who'd been focused entirely on James and his companions, crumpled without a sound. Her black silks fanned out around her like a pool of midnight blood.

'Nobody gets to raise their wand at James Potter unless I say so, bitch.'

James wasn't the only one whose mouth hung agape. 'Is she…?'

'She'll live. As for you, my dear… covered in blood, grime and goodness-only-knows what else. I've been hearing the most _astounding_ rumours…'

'Er, well…' James began, rubbing the back of his neck. How _did_ he explain all of this to Odette?

'He's slain a monster,' Tristan stepped in without hesitation. 'Overthrown the Ministry, saved Headmistress Renshaw and is currently in the process of terrorizing most of the castle.'

'Hey-' Fred complained, indignant.

'Cut it,' Tristan urged. 'This is for the greater good.'

'Oh, my,' Odette said, aghast. Her broomstick fell to the floor with a resounding clatter, and she began fanning herself dramatically. 'James Potter, my brave, bold lion, do you mean to tell me that you are… _in action?'_

'I mean… I guess?'

Odette staggered a step, looking as if she would collapse any minute. James rushed in to catch her, taking her gently by the arms.

She looked up to meet his gaze with a playful, knowing smile and James realised instantly that he'd been played.

'Look at you,' Odette grinned. 'Muscles bulging, pure masculinity coursing through your veins. James Potter, I'm not one for public displays-'

 _Lies._

'- but I could have you right here and now!'

There was a round of snickering and awkward shuffling from behind him. James distinctly heard Cassie huff impatiently.

'Not _really_ the time right now, Odette. We're in a _bit_ of a hurry.'

'If last time was anything to go by, we'll only need a minute.'

This time, it was outright laughter from Tristan and Fred.

'Hey, that was the first- damn it, Odette, I can't right now. We have to rescue Rain.'

Odette threw up her hands in exaggerated exasperation. 'Always, with that harlot!'

'She's our _friend,'_ James stressed.

The rest of the group made to move through and out the door. The sounds of commotion above them were dying down. It was a matter of seconds before somebody came down to check on the prisoners.

Odette grabbed his arm as James made to step past. 'I know, James,' she whispered. 'Just… just come back to me safe, okay? You're no good to me cut to pieces.'

She put on a forced smile, and James nodded sincerely, gave her hand a quick squeeze and then bolted down the steps behind his friends. As they sprinted across the courtyard and towards the open expanse of the castle grounds ahead of them, they heard Odette yelling at an unseen figure behind them.

'Help! Yes you. Potter and his cronies took off into the dungeons! The dungeons, I tell you! Attacked this poor Slytherin girl here and fled! I saw it all…'

And then they were out of earshot, tearing across the uneven, rock-studded hillside and down towards the gatehouse below.

Tristan, from near the rear of the group shouted ahead. 'You and Odette have-?'

'Not the _time,_ Tristan!' James shouted back.

'But she said-'

'We're a _touch_ busy here.'

'It'll only take a minute!' Fred guffawed.

'Listen, I'll bloody hex the lot of you and go by myself, in a minute!'

Blessed silence, from the group.

'Thanks, by the way, Cassie, for not saying anything. At least _somebody_ in this group is being mature about it.'

'Oh, don't get me wrong, James Potter. This is my judgemental scowl.'

James threw up his hands, and didn't say a single word to any of them until they barrelled through the door of the gatehouse and arrived at the fireplace that would take them to the Ministry.

'Tristan, Fred and myself through first,' James said, shedding any hint of a playful air. 'Give us a couple of seconds to make sure it's clear, then the rest of you follow through after.'

The group nodded. James watched as Clip and Cassie clutched each other's hand tightly. As the weakest duellists of the group, they had the most to be afraid of.

Fred was patting a lumpy sack thrown over his shoulder that clearly housed a few of his last 'Sploders. 'I sure hope that Floo fire doesn't set these off like regular fire,' he mused casually. 'Oh well.'

And before any of them could stop him, Fred leapt forth into the grate, shouted 'Ministry of Magic!' and was gone in a flash of green flames.

The remaining five let out a collective sight of relief.

James and Tristan followed after. A rush of soot and ash, and the scent of burning coals crowded James' senses for a moment, as he was jerked from his feet and sent spinning, tumbling and reeling through the mind-bending Floo network. He barely managed to keep his feet on the other side, and staggered out onto the soot-strewn hearth of a fireplace along the main entranceway to the Ministry of Magic.

The first thing he noticed was that there wasn't a single other soul in sight.

'It's a weekend,' Tristan shrugged. 'Typical government types.'

'Where to now?' Cassie asked as she tumbled out of the fireplace, brushing a thin film of ash off of her jeans. Clip, unfortunately, landed a little less gracefully, and was busy picking himself up off the marble floor.

'This way,' James said, leading the group off up the corridor. 'To the elevators. Then down to level nine. Al and I used to dare each other to run and touch the doorknob to the Department of Mysteries when Dad would bring us here.'

'What's it like in there?' Cat asked with a quavering voice. 'Mummy says there's vampires…'

'I dunno,' James shrugged, without looking back. 'We never got that far.'

The group's footsteps echoed off the high ceilings. All six of them paused to stare up at the great, golden statue as they passed, the powerful wizard and beautiful witch, surrounded by the host of magical creatures captured forever in adoration. The water had been switched off, and so it was little more than an eerie, glittering monolith that regarded the group implacably as they scurried past.

The rattling clang of the elevator doors grated on James' nerves. If there _was_ anyone on the entire floor, they would have heard _that._ The group hurried in together. The fit was tight, but none were willing to slit up and wait for the next ride down.

There was a thick, oppressive silence in the small, cramped space as the lift moved ponderously down towards their destination. Each of the six of them, despite such close proximity, were unassailably alone with their thoughts. The anticipation, the nerves, the uncertainty before a fight that spread lethargy through the body turned muscles to jelly and stomachs to churning mush.

'So, what are we expecting?' Fred asked. 'A Steelheart or two? I've been looking forward to another show down with those evil-eyed bastards. Got me a score to settle.'

The forced confidence was an admirable attempt to lighten the mood, but it fell flat, echoing hollowly as all were too ensnared in dark corners of their own minds over just what lay ahead. Imagination was a sensual, alluring bitch when it came to moments such as these; she filled the mind with infinite manner of grisly demise and that addictive, destructive breath of failure.

'I don't know,' James admitted. 'All I know, is that when we get there, we need to head down. Every door, every chance we get. Down. We need to get under the Department. It looked- it was almost like a cave, where they were holding her.'

The doors clanged open, revealing a dark, polished marble corridor, devoid of any sort of adornment.

' _Department of Mysteries,'_ spoke the bland witch's voice.

'This is it,' James told them. 'If anyone wants to turn back now, nobody is going to think less of you. It might be dangerous through there. And once we're in, we're committed. There'll be no going back.'

Cassie thrust her chin forward defiantly. Clip held his wand in a white-knuckled grip, but his hands did not shake. Cat was staring ahead with a fixation and determination she rarely displayed.

'Not bloody likely,' Tristan growled.

'Ok, well, good. If… something might happen to Tristan, Cat and I while we're down there. Professor Longbottom has taken some of our blood and… well, I don't know what he will do, but if we go down, then leave us. The rest of you _need_ to find Rain. Just keep heading downwards, and you'll get to her.'

There were a few protests at that – Cat grabbed James' hand and squeezed it tight. Tristan crossed his arms, defiant. They eventually stared the others down, and the protests faded until even their echoes were gone.

'Then we go.'

James led the way forward. After dozens of run-ins with this corridor as a child, it was almost as if he walked through a memory as he came up to the door. The significance of it was not lost on him, as he reached out and turned the handle that had been the subject of so much fear for so many years.

It gave easily beneath his touch.

They found themselves in a roughly circular room, marked by ordinary-looking doors spaced evenly around each of the walls. As the door through which they'd entered swung shut behind them, there was a sudden, low grinding sound, and the walls shifted, moving, building up to a great whirring speed, blurring wood and polished stone together, cut through only by the thin orange glow of the torches that provided light. They spun so fast that they firelight melded into a single orange streak. Finally, the walls settled again in an arrangement that looked identical to before, but James would bet every Galleon to his name, was not.

'Guess they don't like visitors,' Tristan said, in an attempt to push back the fearful silence that followed.

'Uncle Ron spoke about this room,' Fred said, stepping forward to study one of the plain, wooden doors. James nodded. He recalled it, too. 'It's like the entrance. Every door leads to a somewhere crazy. The Time Room, the Brain Room, the Hall of Prophecy… I don't think that any of them actually lead _down._ '

Clip had taken to his hands and knees, perhaps overwhelmed by the nauseating sensation of the room spinning around them.

James strode forward and chose a door at random, throwing it open. Behind it stood nothing more than a solid, bricked wall. He couldn't even take half a step across the threshold before he was cut off. He struggled to crane his neck around the jamb, but it appeared that there was simply nothing there.

He closed it behind him and had to leap back out o the way as the walls started spinning once more. He had no hope of keeping track of which door it had been exactly.

The next one he tried opened up to a sunny vista of a beach – golden sand, a bright, cloudless sky, gentle waves lapping at the shore, weakly stirring a scattering of broken corals and shells that littered the high-water mark. It would have been idyllic, really, if not for the fact that it was entirely upside-down. James' mind struggled to process the scene. He could see a dark portal a few hundred paces away, seemingly rent into the very fabric of the air, but he dared not take a step inside. Just laying eyes upon the mind-twisting view was enough.

He shut the door firmly, and squeezed his eyes shut as they set to whirling once more.

'This his hopeless!' he sighed, throwing his hands up. 'All of you, grab one handle each. We'll throw them open together. One of them must lead down.'

The others leapt into action, each choosing a door at random. Fred fished one of his 'Sploders out from his pack and held it at the ready. 'Just in case,' he shrugged.

'Ok,' James signalled. 'One, two, th-'

' _No!'_

The sound had come from Clip – the only one not to have grabbed a door. He still lay on the floor in the middle of the room, and was frowning at what James had just taken to be patterns carved into the tiled floor. There was a depiction of an eight-pointed star picked out in black on white – each of the vertices pointing towards a door.

'No,' Clip repeated. 'It's a code. Come here, all of you.'

Hesitantly, James released the handle and made his way over with the others. He shared a confused look with Fred, as Clip murmured softly to himself, tracing unseen patterns between what James could now see were tiny runes etched into the tiles – the entire star was made up of one gigantic line of script.

'Aha!' Clip said, slapping his fist down onto the tiles triumphantly.

Nothing happened.

'Ow,' Clip sulked, rubbing the base of his fist. 'That hur-'

The floor disappeared beneath them, James felt his stomach lurch, and he barely managed to hold onto his wand as all six of them fell together. James had the sense of shapes rushing past him on all sides, but he could discern no detail through the hazy gloom all around them. He collided with a surface, something smooth and glassy, and soon they were sliding instead of falling.

The tunnel pulled them back and forth, wrapping them around sharp bends, or gentle, sweeping arcs. Up and down until James had lost all sense of bearing. Each turn took him by surprise, so that by the time they were spat out onto a plain, wooden floor into a featureless room lit by bracketed torches, he had taken more than a few knocks to the head, elbow, hip, and just about everywhere else on his body.

'Bloody hell,' Fred breathed, gingerly stretching one leg.

'Well, it certainly was _down,'_ Cat added. She was bleeding slightly from her nose, but seemed not to have even noticed.

'Let's keep moving,' James urged. 'We've wasted enough time already.'

He strode forth to the nearest door – one of three lining the right hand side of the room – and threw it open. He was shocked to see what looked like an ordinary break room. Complete with tea kettle, a stack of half-washed cups, a dustbin that was just about overflowing, and a few grimy tables adorned with rickety, bow-legged chairs.

'Oi, this one's an office,' Fred called from the other side of the room.

'Oh, goodness me,' Cassie gasped. 'I think this one is the gents. Gracious, that's- oh, that's _nasty.'_

It seemed strange to find an area so normal in a space infamous for the bizarre and unknown.

'I guess even the Unspeakables have to do paperwork occasionally,' Tristan shrugged. 'This area seems pretty normal to me.'

'Not this door,' Clip chimed in from the far end of the room. He was examining a plain wooden door, painted in faded, chipped whitewash. The wood that showed through beneath was so old and worn as to be almost grey. The handle looked more liable to fall off at their touch rather than turn obligingly. There was a single, mysterious word scrawled upon it. James couldn't work out what it said.

'Below.' Cat read.

'How did you-'

She grabbed James' face and tilted it so he was looking at the door nearly upside-down. ' _Oh.'_

They piled through, and down a long, narrow staircase that wound tighter and tighter until it seemed they were walking in the opposite direction all together. Climbing, instead of descending. The moment James came to this revelation, their path levelled out, and they found themselves in a small antechamber, bearing three doors. James sighed heavily.

'Why does _everything_ need so many doors?'

'Makes it hard for unwanted guests to crash the party,' Fred shrugged, fiddling with a loose 'Sploder in one hand, his wand in the other.

The first door led to a room filled with searing purple flames. James ruled that one out fairly swiftly. The second seemed to lead to a busy street in the middle of London. He dismissed it as well. He threw the third door open a little desperately and found himself staring into almost total darkness. A dimly lit path was a faint grey smudge against the looming black. It zig-zagged across the room until it faded from view, blurred into nothingness only a few hundred paces ahead. He shrugged and gestured the group through.

The door closed heavily behind them. James looked back, but couldn't even make out its position, though he stood not a handful of steps away.

'Bloody dark in here,' he whispered.

Something about the room seemed _off_ in some way. Some sort of primal sense that told him it was in his best interests to whisper.

' _Lumo-'_

Without warning, Cat swooped down and grabbed his wand – dragging James' arm up with it – and popped it in her mouth.

 _-s_.'

Cat's cheeks began to glow. James could see the shadow of her teeth. His wand gave off enough light to allow him to see the terrified expression on her face. Her pale eyes were wide with fear as she slowly pointed up at the ceiling above them.

Eyes. Hundreds and hundreds of eyes. All around them. Covering the ceiling as far as James could see. All over the walls on either side. Close enough that Fred could lob his 'Sploder at them. Close enough that whatever belonged to those eyes could probably be on them in the space of a heartbeat.

Everywhere James looked, more and more eyes came to life. Tiny pinpricks of beady, red light watching. Waiting. It made James' skin crawl. He could feel his hackles raised, and wasn't surprised to note his hand quivering as he cast _Nox_ to extinguish the light.

There was nowhere to go but forward. The group stuck to the faintly illuminated path as they wound their way through the pitch darkness. The eyes above tracked every step that they made. It felt as if someone held a dagger, poised over James' spine, and any wrong step or sudden movement would send it plunging into his heart.

 _They're just bats,_ he tried to tell himself. _Just really large, evil-eyed bats…_

They managed to make it through the room and out into the relative glare of another small antechamber without major incident.

'If I ever have to set foot in there again,' Clip breathed. 'It'll be too soon.'

This time, the antechamber had only one door, so James pushed ahead and opened it. It led to a room with a ceiling so high that James could barely make it out. The twisted, complex rafters were little more than matchsticks up above. Bundles of light danced in and out between them, bathing the room in a soft, bluish light. And illuminating the mountains of _stuff_ that walled their path in every direction.

" _Vanished"_ said a small sign on the door. As the group move through, they noticed that many of the items close at hand were winking in and out of existence, seemingly at random. This caused some level of consternation when larger items that were clearly propping up the pile simply ceased to exist, sending great towers of clutter teetering back and forth precariously, casting great looming shadows over their paltry group.

Somewhere in the distance, a great, thunderous rumble resounded. It sounded like a landslide of epic proportions.

'Stick to the path,' James muttered. As if they needed telling.

'It's like the bloody Forbidden Forest all over again,' Tristan whispered, his wand still held at the ready.

'I think I'd rather the Forest,' Cat said, clutching tightly to the tails of James' t shirt.

'I think this is where vanished things go…' Cassie breathed, as she watched a pile of scrolls appear and disappear from within a stately old bookshelf.

The next little antechamber bore two doors. James tugged on the handle of the one to the right, but nothing happened. The handle of the door on the left rattled when he did so. He tried the door on the left and again, was met with nothing. This time, the handle on the right jiggled mockingly.

'I think they need to be opened together,' Cassie suggested, frowning quizzically at the doors.

Not for the first time, James was glad he hadn't had to make this trip alone.

James grabbed hold of one handle, while Clip grabbed the other. They opened the doors together and revealed an identical colonnaded walkway with marble statues set in niches lining each side. Shrugging, James stepped through his door followed by Tristan and Cassie. Cat and Fred followed Clip through his.

And neither group found the other once they passed through the door.

James spun around, but with a heavy _whump,_ the door swung shut, and then _disappeared_ into the thick stone wall behind them.

'Shit,' swore Tristan.'

Cassie gave a small whimper, and clutched her wand fiercely to her chest.

'It's ok,' James said, trying to stay calm. 'We- we'll cover more ground this way.'

'It's not like we've run into anyone so far,' Tristan said in an attempt to comfort Cassie. 'We're probably better off in smaller groups any-'

 _Boom._

'Shit,' Tristan swore again.

The three shared a significant look.

 _Boom._

Cassie frowned. 'That sounds like…'

'One of Fred's 'Sploders, aye.'

'Which means trouble.'

The group spared no more time, bolting down the walkway, heedless of the stoic regard of the giant statues above them. They barrelled through the door and the subsequent antechamber, then through a series of progressively more bizarre rooms that house giant mushrooms, thousands of floating lights that Cassie couldn't take her eyes off, and then what looked like a lava lake broiling away beneath the rocky walkway they transgressed.

The fourth room was a flat, barren plain. Bare rock underfoot was coated by a thin film of dust. The door that appeared closest to them reeked of some sense of _wrongness._ Something that just seemed out of place. Anathema to all of James' senses. It left him feeling greasy and dirty. And feeling horribly, helplessly alone. But they had no choice. James reached out to take the handle-

'James, _no!'_

Cassie lunged and smacked James' arm away. She pointed at a faded, brassy plaque above the door. It was pitted and covered with Verdigris, but the writing could just about be made out: _Death's Door._

James backed slowly away with his hands raised.

'You don't think…?'

'I don't want to risk it.'

They pushed on, realising that the doorway had been floating through the room, and had gravitated towards them when they appeared. On the far end, they slipped through a much smaller, less conspicuous portal, leaving Death's Door floating sadly alone once more. James could practically feel the longing.

 _Boom._

The explosions were getting closer. How many 'Sploders had Fred brought? Just what horrifying monstrosity had they come up against? Or had they found Rain, and already fought to break her free, desperately needing help from James as he ran, lost, through the bowels of the Department of Mysteries.

Another stairwell lay ahead of them. Leading blessedly downwards. The three darted down it together, James in the lead, Tristan bringing up the rear. Soon they levelled out, not into an antechamber or another room, but into a dark, winding corridor, lit sporadically by bracketed torches.

Dark, damp stone lined the walls and ceiling. Rough-cut and jagged, it looked hewn from the earth itself. Small, squat doors punctuated unadorned walls. It looked eerily like a row of cells.

'This is it!' James hissed. He recalled it from Rain's vision. 'This is where they were holding her. We're nearly there.'

 _Boom._

Frantic footsteps up ahead. So close they could be just around the corner.

'Guys! Fred! We're here!' Cassie yelled, her voice cracking with fear.

James and Tristan both dove in to clap their hands over her mouth, but too late, her voice echoed up ahead of them. The footsteps suddenly stopped. James heard the low growl of guttural voices.

'Shit again,' Tristan swore.

Cassie's eyes bulged. 'I'm so sorry!' she hissed.

'Let's go!' James hissed, tugging Cassie forward by the sleeve of her shirt.

They sprinted ahead – towards the voices – until they came across an intersection with a staircase. Bare stone steps led downwards, the path lit by the occasional torch flickering in rusted, cast-iron baskets. Upwards, the steps spiralled into darkness.

'Down it is.'

They began to hurtle down the steps. Two figures appeared in the corridor, from the direction they had been heading. Tall, in long dark robes and shadowy hoods. Red emblems blazed on their chests.

'Steelhearts!' Tristan yelled.

A length of glittering chain leapt from the wand of one of the figures. Tristan managed to push it aside at the last second, receiving a gash across the face for his efforts. James paused in his flight, hesitating for half a second – should he help Tristan defend their rear?

'Run!' Tristan shouted. 'We can't fight bloody Steelhearts!'

James turned and ran. He could hear Cassie's laboured breathing behind him. Tristan, bringing up the rear fired spell after spell wildly back over his head. Chips of stone flew as the occasional jet of spellfire slipped passed Tristan's defences and nearly collected James in the back of the head.

' _Praelenify!'_ Cassie shouted, jabbing her wand at the steps behind them. A thick coating of greasy oil leapt form her wand and coated the stone.

Shouts of alarm came from their pursuers. James heard a set of satisfying thuds.

'Good thinking,' Tristan grunted. ' _Incendio!'_

Hungry, incandescent flames roared forth from his wand, and consumed the corridor behind them. James stopped, aghast at the searing blue-green light. Cassie threw up her hands before her, shielding form the coursing heat that rolled off the blaze in almost physical waves.

The curses of frustration turned to screams of agony.

'Bloody hell,' James breathed.

Cassie held a shaking hand to her mouth. James had to wrap an arm around her to keep her on her feet.

'We're not here to make friends,' Tristan said unapologetically. Blood leaked from a wicked gash above his left eye. 'Some of those spells would have relieved me of the head from my shoulders, if I hadn't shielded from them.'

James turned to move onward, but Cassie was rooted to the spot, clutching fiercely to his arm.

'C'mon, Cassie,' he urged softly. 'We need to keep moving. We need to find Rain.'

'I just- we just-'

James stooped to bring himself eye-to-eye with his friend. Her wide-eyed gaze was swimming behind a sheen of tears. 'Listen, Cassie,' he began, as calmly as he could. 'We only did what they wanted to do to us. We stopped them harming us- and harming Rain. These are bad people, Cassie. Hell, we don't even know if the Steelhearts _are_ real people. You can do this, Cassie. You're braver than you think.'

Slowly, she nodded, scrubbing at here eyes with the heel of her palm. 'They could have stopped it, too. Couldn't they? There's flame-freezing charms, and- and- burn-repellents…'

'Aye, they could. Which means that they might show up any second now even angrier than before, so we'd better keep moving.'

She nodded again, releasing James' grip and visibly steeling herself, drawing herself up to her full height and setting her shoulders defiantly.

The stairwell led them out onto a corridor identical to the one above. Bare, stone walls, recessed niches housing dimly-glowing torches. Except, this time, there were no doors dotting the walls on either side of the corridor. This time, a few hundred metres up ahead, it simply seemed to end, opening out into some vast, black, cavernous space.

'This is it!' James sprinted towards the exit, elation growing in his chest. He could hear the others close behind. The opening was growing larger, less than a dozen paces ahead…

'No you bloody don't.'

The deep, guttural growl came from the far end of the corridor, but its echo leapt ahead of James, so that for a wild moment, he thought themselves surrounded. Instinctively, he ducked to the ground, just as he felt the searing heat of a spell zip past through the space he'd occupied not a moment ago.

The Steelhearts were back, and even more terrifying than before. Most of their robes were burned away, revealing burned, charred flesh. Great red weals lined their faces, and pale blisters leaked fluids down their necks, arms and legs. One seemed to be missing an eye, but had no trouble lowering his wand directly at the three of them, huddled together in one of the sconces that marred the walls.

 _So close!_ Frustration raged within James, fuelling his efforts as he blocked a pair of spells that flew their way.

'You kids picked the wrong day to get lost down here,' the one-eyed one growled. He drew his wand down in a violent slashing motion, and James was forced to roll as a wide, purple jet of light nearly filled the entire corridor, and left deep gouges in the stone either side.

' _Defodio!'_ Tristan shouted, pushing himself to his feet.

A rain of rock and rubble tumbled from the ceiling, forcing the Steelhearts to leap backwards, and filling the space with a thick haze of dust.

'Run, James. You get to Rain, we'll hold these two off as long as we can.'

'No you bloody won't-'

'Yes, James, we will.' Cassie was on her feet now, too, defiantly blocking the corridor, shoulder to shoulder with Tristan.

'Cassie, you can't!'

'I _can,_ James. I'm braver than I think. Maybe, I'm braver than you think, too.' Her hands shook, and her tremulous breathing came short and fast and frantic, but she stood firm.

James shared a nod with Tristan, then turned and bolted up the corridor as the Steelhearts emerged from the dust, raining a barrage of spellfire down upon his friends.

He'd been right. The opening was a balcony, of sorts, overlooking the large, cavernous chamber with the arch. He couldn't see Rain directly, but knew she must be just on the other side. He vaulted the balustrade without thinking, preparing for a heavy impact on the rocky ground below.

But he just kept falling. He'd messed up the scales. The arch wasn't about twice his height, it must have been at least five. The room was massive. Far more so than he had anticipated. The drop was deadly. There was a spell to lower descent, but he'd never mastered it. He was going to end up splattered across the floor, mere metres from where Rain was being held, all because he hadn't looked before he leapt-

A jerking motion that felt like his stomach being pulled forward through his belly button, and his fall slowed, ground to a halt, and stopped, an inch from the floor. He dropped the last meagre distance onto the hard, unforgiving ground, and felt like a total, utter fool as the final little jerk caused him to bite through his tongue. Hot, steely blood flooded his mouth and he cursed himself for an idiot a thousand times over. Some bloody hero, he was.

He pushed himself to his feet, and scrambled down the wide steps. The room was a giant amphitheatre. With the arch on a plinth in the centre. A thin, tattered veil hung down beneath it, stirring on a breeze that James was certain didn't exist. Each time he looked at it, he could hear whispers sounding in his head. They beckoned him to come closer.

Step after step James sprinted, rounding the room bit by bit until- there! A set of shelves piled high with magical items whirring and humming and puffing off a cloud of green-blue smoke that hung around the dais at about head height. As he rounded the room he saw the table come into view. Saw Rain's spill of golden-red hair, and saw a thin, frail looking witch with dark hair and narrow features standing over her.

The witch held one fist high above her head. It glowed with a malignant, dark energy. A hazy blackness, deeper even than the gloom of the cavern, pulsed around it like a sickly heartbeat. Arcs of black and purple lightning flashed within it, setting James' hair on end even from a distance.

Whatever spell she had conjured reeked of appalling power, and she held it hovered above Rain's body. Oblivious to all else, even to James' presence.

James allowed relief to wash over him for the first time that day, and he gave a genuine smile as he raised his own wand, took careful aim, and yelled, ' _Stupefy!'_


	37. Pursued

Gwendolyn Tuft had wept as she prepared the site where she would finally break the young girl's mind. She had wept as she swept the floors of dust. She'd wept as she arranged the magical instruments and set them to whirring, puffing, wheezing and whining, all in preparation for the vital roles they'd play in the ritual to come. She'd lingered in the haze of smoke they emanated and wept as it stung her eyes – at least now she had an excuse.

She'd nearly broken down entirely when forced to wheel the girl out, strapped and shackled to a makeshift cot like some kind of wild monster. It had taken Gwendolyn three attempts to levitate her safely across the giant amphitheatre in the Veil Room. She'd dropped the poor girl while twice trying to mount the dais. Falling down beside her prostrate body, Gwendolyn had shed tears and blubbered sniffling apologies. But the girl's features remained unresponsive, her expression almost placid.

She hadn't stirred since a few hours back, not long after Gwendolyn had finally brought her to the dais. She'd screamed at the ceiling for a frantic minute, and then fallen deathly still. Gwendolyn had been checking her breathing every few minutes since, just to make sure that she still lived.

 _It will all be over soon, my love. Oh, how I wish things could be different._

Gwendolyn knew that it had been her fault, that it had all come to this. First, her own eagerness to prove herself to Raven. And then her inability to stand up to him. If she'd been any less of a coward she'd have taken the girl and fled. But with no home to go to and nobody else that she could trust, she couldn't have promised that it would lead to a better life for the girl than the one she currently had.

At least, that's how Gwendolyn had justified it to herself. Since she left Hogwarts, she'd had nobody else in her life except Raven. He knew that she wouldn't flee. She'd seen his calm, collected arrogance as she railed against the injustices he asked of her. She'd hated him for it. The first time she'd ever allowed herself to think ill of him. But it still hadn't been enough.

She'd still been a coward. And now the girl was going to die.

 _Let it be quick,_ Gwendolyn begged. _Let it be painless._

She'd struggled to slip into the relaxed, dispassionate state required of the ritual magics that made up the core of what she sought to do. Not quite breaching the truly Dark Arts, ritual magic nonetheless left Gwendolyn feeling dirty. As if to summon the power she had to descend pond covered in murky scum. The very essence of it filled her up – every pore, every part of her soul – until she felt the very air around her was tainted. She'd feel this way for weeks afterwards, she well knew.

She focused as much as she could, despite the uncomfortable sensation pulsing through her veins. This much, she could give the girl, at least. A clean break. A swift end. A ritual cleanly executed.

She would shatter the mind of the young girl in one fell swoop. Like a delicate sphere spun form the finest crystal, Gwendolyn would crush it beneath the iron fist of her magical blows. And from among the shards would spill forth the prize: the power that Raven sought. For something lived within this girl. Some demon or shattered fragment of her own soul, something that was growing in power each and every day. It threatened to overwhelm her. That it hadn't already was a staggering testament to the girl's voracity. To her tenacious strength.

Unless, of course, the girl was working _with_ this spirit. Unless she had found a way to control the power. In which case, Gwendolyn was probably doing the entire world a favour.

The power of her ritual magics was reaching a fell crescendo. It crackled within her. The appalling, destructive might threatening to burst forth from her breast and swallow the entire room – the entire _Ministry._

She rose her hand to strike the blow. She afforded herself one look up. One last glimpse of the world, before she changed it forever.

And saw him. A young boy, with wand levelled directly at her. The one from the girl's visions? The one she had been imploring to rescue her? The one that she had Marked, had Claimed as her own. Though she'd never seen his face, it was nonetheless familiar. It must have been him.

She couldn't stop the shock that nearly overwhelmed her. Nor the sorrow. For her own inaction, her own stalling and grovelling before Raven had given this young boy the time he needed to find them. And now, he was going to die as well. Another soul to lay at the feet of the wicked, evil, Gwendolyn Tuft.

She saw the spell shoot forth from his wand, saw it tear through the air towards her, as she stood upright and poised, fist held above her head. She watched as one of her magical instruments gave a sudden flare of light, and the spell fizzled against a conjured, invisible barrier.

She shared the look of dismay and sadness that was evident on the boy's features as she swung her hand viciously down and into the poor girl's breast.

* * *

A cry tore forth from James' lips as he saw his spell fizzle and die against the invisible shield generated by one of the magical instruments.

' _No!'_ he cried, as he watched the dark-haired witch plunge her hand down _into_ Rain's chest.

Rain arched her back instantly, straining against her bonds. She thrashed violently back and forth upon the table and let out a soul-rending, keening cry that split the air and drove James to his knees. It was so animal, so unnatural, that he found himself clawing at his ears to be rid of it.

He couldn't get any closer. He couldn't even move at all. He'd been shoved up against one of the giant steps that ringed the amphitheatre, fighting to keep his eyes open in the face of the onslaught of power rolling off of Rain and her captor in waves.

It battered every muscle on James' body. Like a giant fist, it held him down. He could feel it tearing at him, seeking to rend the flesh from his bones. It seared his eyes and stung his nose and throat, the sharp, acrid taste of raw magic burned the senses and held him frozen, rooted to the spot.

So James could only watch as the lightning flowed restlessly down the dark-haired witch's arm and into Rain's chest. It snapped and popped with sharp, staccato rhythm, lashing out petulantly at anything nearby. Chips of stone flew from the floor and from the patterned masonry of the great archway. They collided against the fluttering veil with dull, heavy thuds. More than once, a spray of red and a pained cry punctuated Rain's howls as the magic tore strips of flesh free from the arms, face, and body of her captor.

Rain's screaming reached a fever pitch. James could see muscles and tendons knotting and bulging on her neck. Her hands clawed at nothing, clasped tight in iron bonds, they scrabbled uselessly with bloodied nails at the stalwart buckles. A soft, ethereal shimmer began to coalesce above her head, leaking from her mouth, nose, ears and even her eyes. Something was being spun out of Rain – a sort of glittering, magical essence that radiated power in visible waves. It gave off the heat of an entire sun, next to the mere furnace of power wielded by the dark-haired witch. One of the larger magical instruments began whirring even faster, and the essence slowly began to siphon from the stagnant cloud into another, funnel-shaped metal object.

The funnel took on a warm, molten glow. James watched as it warped, sagged, and finally began to melt into a pile of so much slag, running down in a thick, searing, gelatinous mass over the edges of the shelves.

Was that _supposed_ to have happened?

Judging by the look of concern on the witch's face, James thought not. An arc of her black lightning hit the glowing cloud of essence, and exploded in a shower of golden sparks. She was forced to withdraw her hand from Rain's chest. The screaming stopped. The connection between Rain and the softly shimmering essence faded away, and her body fell still, spent.

James cried out, but his voice was lost even to his own ears as the roar of a gale force wind rushed through the room. The witch had withdrawn from attacking Rain to focus wholly on the glowing essence, that shimmering crux of power. She wielded her wand in wide, complex arcs. James could see her lips moving ceaselessly, but couldn't make out any words over the wind howling in his ears. The lightning had faded, and she now wielded a large, glowing purple barrier that was forcing the essence backwards, towards the arch, and the fluttering veil that hung beneath it. That veil hadn't so much as stuttered in its gentle fluttering even despite the roaring wind that punched air from James' lungs and drove him from his feet.

Though it was costing her dearly, the dark-haired witch was winning the battle. The shimmering substance was being slowly, gradually forced backwards, closer and closer to the veil beneath the archway. The witch's face was contorted into a gruesome snarl, but she slashed her wand in a downwards arc and a look of triumph stole over her features. The glow was being pushed back. It flared for a moment, flickered briefly, and then made contact with the veil.

It was then that James' world exploded in a burst of light.

* * *

The melting of the Soul Chamber had been the first warning to Gwendolyn Tuft that something was amiss. That ancient, powerful vessel, dragged up from the gloomy bowels of history by Raven from Merlin-only-knew where, ought to have been able to hold anything she forced into it. She'd done the reading; some of the most powerful witches and wizards through history had been Bound in such a way.

So why, now, had it faltered?

Was her current subject too powerful? Unlikely. Merlin himself would not be able to escape one. Had she performed the ritual incorrectly? Possible, but again, unlikely. She'd researched nothing else for months now. The only other reason for failure was something she couldn't quite bring herself to consider: that it wasn't a human soul she was manipulating.

And now, that soul – of _whatever_ ungodly provenance it might have been – was trying to manipulate _her._ She fought with all her might, drawing on the powers of the ritual magic to hold it at bay as it began advancing. Great arcs of lightning tore through the air. The bellowing of torrential wind rushed endlessly through her ears. It sounded like bitter, wheezing laughter.

She drew on all of her magical reserves as she slowly began to force the _thing_ back. And then, she drew deeper. She took back from the ritual she had invoked. Drew from the tiny magical wellsprings bound into the items around her. They shattered and popped. Her wards faltered for a moment, and then failed, but that didn't matter now. All that mattered was keeping that pale, shimmering light _away._

It was hungry, wild and relentless. She could feel it through their shared proximity. It tried, again and again to lash out.

 _Freedom. Need. Control._

The realisation of what Gwendolyn had done hit her with the force of a charging Erumpent. She'd torn down every single barrier and defence the young girl had manage to throw up to cage this monster. She'd whittled them down, bit by merciless bit, over months. What she had left behind was a mind scoured raw. Weak, quivering, defenceless. And she'd just set free this monstrosity.

It would claim the girl wholly, like it had never been able to, before. The appalling, endless power that it contained would be provided a willing vessel. It would scour any last remnant of the little girl free, and have complete, utter control…

 _Not while I still draw breath._

She'd do anything she could to protect that girl, she suddenly realised. Gwendolyn could still sense her gentle pulse. Knew that there was yet hope for her. And so her own screams of agony morphed into roars of triumph as she forced the shimmering essence back into the veil-

A sudden explosion of light blinded Gwendolyn entirely. She felt power, such rich, unbridled power, washing over her, searing her clothes from her back, her very skin from her body. Through it all, she could feel that malevolent presence – not fading, as it should have been – but growing, suddenly, terrifyingly stronger.

 _No, it cannot be! Beyond that veil lies… well, nothing. The Abyss. Another place, another… realm. It is a gateway, a portal. There is no coming back. It's not possible!_

And yet, it was happening. Gwendolyn could feel that dark sentience growing. Growing in power. Growing in self-awareness.

'No!'

The scream was torn from Gwendolyn's lips and the sound didn't even reach her own hears. She still couldn't see through the blinding light, but threw herself forward as that writhing, shimmering, malignant mass rushed in. She threw herself between it and the frail, broken body of the young girl. Protecting, shielding. Placing herself between the girl and this monstrosity.

If there was one last thing she could do, one tiny gift she could give to this girl she had left so thoroughly broken and ruined, then it was this. This salvation.

'Forgive me.'

Gwendolyn lay face down, and wept into the girl's chest as the light burned even brighter, the heat bloomed well past unbearable, and her world was torn away in a haze of light.

* * *

James picked himself up from where he'd fallen to the floor. He'd been unable to withstand the blinding barrage that had stolen his sight for what felt like hours, though had really been only a handful of seconds. He'd been screaming out for Rain the entire time.

He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the dancing purple lights from his vision. He staggered forwards on uneven legs, scrambling down the last of the broad, stone steps, and then upwards, clambering up to mount the dais where Rain was held. He had neither seen nor heard any sense of movement since the light had faded.

His heart was hammering a desperate rhythm against his ribcage, and his mouth was dry as he came level with where Rain had been held. Any wards that may have once stood were now long since gone. The myriad magical instruments lay scattered and broken. Twisted heaps of melted glass and metal, puffing and whirring no more. He saw, where the veil had once hung, was now the twisting whorl of a purple-and-silver vortex. It spun slowly, bleeding a malignant, dark substance out onto the pavestones around it, which were slowly crumbling to ash. James tore his eyes away from it with great difficulty.

He rushed over to the travois to which Rain was bound.

He had to pull the body of the other witch off of Rain. She seemed to have fallen and, quite possibly, died laying crossways over Rain's unmoving form. James frowned as he watched the older witch's naked form crumble to the ground in a pile of ash that had once been her singed robes. Had her hair always been that pale? Had her robes managed to conceal that many scars?

But his curiosity was immaterial. It was all immaterial. Nothing mattered now, other than the soft rise and fall of Rain's chest that he could make out through the hole in her tattered shirt. The pale skin of her chest remained unbroken. The faintest sighing of her feeble breath was a musical susurration to James' ears. The erratic stirring of her eyes behind closed lids was the most beautiful of dances. She was alive!

' _Relashio!'_

Chains sprung free from her wrists and ankles, revealing angry red burns, broken skin and weeping sores.

'Rain, wake up,' James urged, shaking her shoulder gently. Her head lolled to the side, and a shower of her red-gold locks cascaded over the edge of the travois, but she didn't so much as stir.

Frowning, James looped an arm beneath her waist and lifted her over his shoulder. He staggered a step, righting his balance by laying a hand on one of the nearby shelves. It was hot to touch. Smouldering slag and twisted ruin of melted magical devices dripped sluggishly through the grated shelves.

His footfalls were stilted and awkward as he made his way down the steps to the central basin of the amphitheatre. It was the deepest point of the room, ringing the dais on which Rain had been bound. It would be an exhausting climb back up the wide, stone steps to the exit well above him. His progress was slow, and it was only now dawning on him just how much work he'd still have to do to find his friends and leave, especially before-

 _Boom!_

High above him, a door that had been concealed into the wall crashed open, splinters and fragments of shattered wood flung inwards under a massive force. A sprawling body followed soon after, with a flash of red hair giving it away as Fred.

James cried out in alarm, but Fred pushed himself to shaky feet, raising a hasty shield to block a nasty jet of purplish light that zipped through the ruined remains where the door had once been.

'C'mon, you heartless bastards!' he called. 'Let me jam one of these down your throat and kick you till it breaks, we'll see who's laughing then!'

James watched him lob a 'Sploder back in through the door, the concussive blast rushed outwards, hot on the tail of the harried forms of Clip and Cat, both breathing heavily and bleeding from numerous cuts and gashes.

'Fred, down here!' James called, a touch of desperation entering his tone.

'You bloody legend,' Fred gasped, as smoke furled out from the doorway. 'How the hell did you-'

He was cut off by a jet of red light rushing forth from the smoke. It smashed into his chest with the sound of shattering glass, and his body was thrown backwards, blasted off the top step, and bouncing two, then three more steps down towards James. His wand clattered away from unmoving fingers. He groaned feebly, and then was still.

Clip and Cat broke into a sprint away from the door as a wave of spellfire roared forth. Jets of blue, silver, and yellow light roared forth. They crackled and fizzed as they cut through the air. Chips of stone were sent flying in all directions. James rushed towards where Fred lay, buckling beneath Rain's weight on his shoulders.

Two, then three, then _six_ Steelhearts emerged from the ruins of the doorway. Their cold, emotionless eyes found the group of children, now huddled together, wands raised defiantly. Their leader smiled, revealing a row of filed teeth.

'Not today, children,' he sneered. ' _Avada-'_

A thunderous blow and a flash of lightning filled the room. James was knocked to the floor. He heard Cat and Clip both cry out. Guttural snarls and growls came from the direction of the Steelhearts. There was the distinct whiz and zing of spellfire being exchanged, and that burning, sulphurous smell that came from the collision of magic.

And then Professor Longbottom was standing over them, once cheek smoke-stained, his hair blackened with soot and ash. His face was calm, but a fire burned fiercely behind the brittle surface of his gaze, barely held in check.

He offered James a hand.

'Professor! How did you-?'

'Later.'

'I thought you-'

'Then you didn't give me near enough credit. Remember the advice I gave you, when the Ministry arrived? And again, when they tried to expel you? _Pick your battles._ Well, I'll be damned thrice over if this isn't _our_ battle. All of us. It's time to fight.'

As James regained his feet, he saw his mother engaging three Steelhearts at once. Behind her, Uncle Ron was duelling another three. Teddy was locked in a fierce battle against a particularly big and nasty looking one. Which only left-

'Professor, you need to help Tristan and Cassie! They were back up on the balcony, holding the corridor.'

Without another word, Professor Longbottom took off, leaping impossibly high to alight on the balcony as comfortably as if he'd simply jumped up a single stair. James watched his back disappear from view before turning to help Clip and Cat back to their feet. All three of them grabbed each other in a fierce embrace for a brief moment. Both of his friends' rushing, ragged breathing filled James' ears.

'I'm sorry I brought you here-' he began.

'Quit your whining,' came Fred's strained voice from where he was struggling into a sitting position. 'I haven't been allowed to blow this much stuff up since… well, _ever._ Mum would have a heart attack. This is the best day of my life.'

Relief washed over James, and he sagged to his knees, but only before a moment before his friends pulled him back to his feet. They helped him take Rain's weight once more. James insisted he carry her alone. They eventually relented.

Professor Longbottom returned, leaping from the balcony with a battered Tristan and Cassie in tow.

'Should have seen this one,' Tristan said wearily, nodding towards Cassie. 'She was incredible.'

Cassie was trying to look bashful, but James could see her pride glowing even through the layer of sweat and ash and grime that coated her face. She had dozens of small cuts and scratches running up both of her exposed forearms. Her wand was splintered and chipped, but still intact. Tristan was bleeding profusely from the nose, and had a nasty black eye to match.

'What happened to you?' James asked him.

This time, Cassie _definitely_ looked a little sheepish.

'Well we were falling back-' she started.

'And we sort of mistimed the manoeuvre,' Tristan added.

'And I slightly ran head-first into Tristan's face.' She pulled back her fringe to show a small lump growing high on her forehead.

Despite everything – the uncertainty of their getting out alive, despite the spellfire snapping and popping over their heads, and despite their weary, bloodied state, all six of them burst out laughing together.

'No time for jokes,' came Professor Longbottom's grim voice. 'We need to get out of here. Fast.'

James could see Ginny, Uncle Ron and Teddy all contracting backwards, ceding ground step by painful step as they withdrew back to where the children were gathered. They were using non-lethal spells only, their entire energy was spent on deflecting wild spellfire, with only the occasional opportunistic counter-strike, using stunners, ropes and chains, the Impediment Jinx. Their caution was costing them, though. The giant Steelheart Teddy was duelling managed to close the distance between them, and backhanded Teddy across the face. Blood sprayed in an arc, and James watched as his half-brother struggled to regain his wits in time to block a vicious-looking grey-black spell.

'Grab hold!' Professor Longbottom shouted. 'We're going to Apparate out. Everyone, grab each other!'

But even as the group surged together, a strange sensation overcame them. The air became soupy and thick for a second. Sounds became muffled. James felt his ears pop in response to the change in pressure. Professor Longbottom swore violently.

'Anti-apparition wards,' he growled. 'Looks like we're doing this the old-fashioned way. Stay behind me, kids. Keep your wands ready and your shields up. This could still get messy.'

'It hasn't already?!' Cassie wailed, aghast, but the Professor wasn't listening. He'd leapt in to relieve a flagging Teddy, shouting for them all to push towards the exit which Fred had left in tatters.

James and Tristan took the flanks, herding Cassie and Clip in towards the centre. Fred was forced to follow, because – despite his fervent protests otherwise – he was clearly in massive pain, and was regularly coughing up bloody phlegm. Cat fell in step beside James – still with Rain's unconscious body over his shoulder, and added her strength to his own as they conjured a glassy shield around themselves and their friends, tentatively following in the Professor's footsteps, making their way up towards the top of the broad, stone steps and the highest ground that ringed the outer fringes of the room.

All of them were shaken by what they had seen. What they had done. By the way they had stood, shoulder to shoulder, and faced Death's skeletal grin. Together. As if they provided one another with some critical, unassailable strength. Something they could never hope to replicate alone. James could tell, by the flat, dull light behind his friends' eyes, that this would forge a bond between them. It would draw them closer, like nothing before had. When the flames of their fear receded, the heat in the smouldering coals that were left behind would forge a bond stronger than steel.

But to get there, they still had to make it out of the Ministry alive.

Ginny cried out as a spell slipped under her guard, and crimson blood blossomed from a gash across her stomach. That seemed to flick some kind of a switch in their rescuers, and the next spell from Ron's wand severed the arm clean off the nearest of the Steelhearts.

Things got nasty from there. James' group mounted the crest of the steps and rushed to find shelter up against the wall, as far from the fighting as possible. A great curtain of fire blazed forth from the remaining Steelhearts, and it was all that Professor Longbottom could do to keep them all shielded. Ron raised his hands up to the heavens, and a great slab of the stone floor dislodged, flowing like liquid to entomb two Steelhearts from head to toe. James could hear the sneer in his Uncle's voice as he slashed both arms downward and the makeshift sarcophagi contracted suddenly with a whip-like crack. Blood and other fluids leaked through several cracks in the stone and pooled on the shattered floor.

When Ginny shot a golden-hued javelin that shattered the shield of another Steelheart and skewered him through the stomach, their path to the doorway was clear. James ushered the group through ahead of him, holding his wand in a fierce grip as he struggled to maintain the shield. A stray spell slipped past Ron and crashed against it, drawing it frightfully close to dissolving. Cat's grip on his upper arm grew fierce as they both strained to hold the spell together.

Professor Longbottom's face appeared at the door. 'Move!' he barked. 'Let's get going before more show up!'

The group didn't need telling twice, and had already turned and taken a handful of steps up the corridor when a cry of dismay came from the room they'd just left, and all six turned as one.

A new figure had appeared in the room. That he was no Steelheart was immediately obvious. He didn't wear their customary robes, but it was more than that. His imposing, powerful presence stuck fear in a way that the snarling, spitting Steelhearts never could. Dark, cold eyes surveyed their small group and their defenders dispassionately. He was taller even than Uncle Ron, and broad across the chest, lending every step he took a sense of unstoppable momentum. A long, black wand was held loosely in his left hand, and across his massively broad shoulders hung a midnight-black cape, spotted here and there with the feathers of a raven.

Ron tried his trick with the rock again. This time, a massive, rippling wave swept up from the floor beneath the newcomer's feet. It crested high above him, but paused, frozen on the cusp of breaking. There was a moment where a high-pitched wail filled the room, and then the rock shattered like glass. Thousands of razor-sharp shards of rock hung in the air for a heartbeat, and then flew towards their defenders as if every single one had been launched from Hagrid's massive crossbow.

The group brought up hasty shields to quell the blow. All, that was, except for Teddy, who was a half-second too slow, and fell to the ground screaming in agony, clutching at his face as blood flowed through his fingers.

'Run!' Professor Longbottom yelled, blocking the group's view of the horrifying scene. 'We'll hold him and fall back, but you need to get out of here, now! We'll meet you in the Atrium back near the statue.'

He turned to re-join the fight. Uncle Ron's enraged bellow drowned out even Teddy's cries of pain. The professor hesitated a moment, turned back over his shoulder. 'If we're not there in ten minutes, get in a fireplace and get out of here. James, find your father. He… he'll know what to do.'

And before any of them could protest, the professor was gone.

James ushered the group up the corridor. He stayed at the rear. He alone bore the weight of Rain's unconscious body. He had brought them all here, to a hell beyond anything he could have imagined. He had asked enough of them already. This burden was one he would shoulder alone.

He kept a Shield Charm on the tip of the tongue as the group made their way through the winding, twisting passage. Deep scores and gouges in the stone had marked where Fred and the others had fought their way through the halls. The skirted around a crater that was no fewer than ten paces across. James raised his eyebrows appreciatively.

'Got mixed up between my Cussers and my 'Sploders,' Fred shrugged in response.

The dark, stone passage ended in a small, squat room ringed by four doors, including the one they had just exited. The ceiling was so low that Cat had to stoop to avoid the blue-tinged chandelier that provided them light.

'Don't take that door,' Fred warned, pointing towards the one straight ahead. 'We made that mistake earlier. There was about a dozen Steelhearts in there, all crowded 'round a table covered in blood…'

Tristan didn't need telling twice, and threw the door to the left open, leading the group through with wand raised. They found themselves in a sort of tunnel carved into a wall of water. The entire room around them – if they even _were_ in a room – was filled with dark, seething liquid. Their eyes couldn't penetrate more than a few metres in any direction. A murky green-stained smear of light hung an unfathomable height above them, providing an eerie transcendent glow illuminating their path ahead.

As James passed through the door, it sealed shut behind him, and the water flowed down to block it off.

'Forwards it is, then,' he muttered.

He shifted Rain's weight as they walked. The ache in his shoulder was resonating with all of the other pains in his body – those force-healed and those still red and raw and marked upon his skin. His legs grew more and more weary with every step, as the group marched onwards under the watchful, luminous gaze of the ocean of water around them.

'Hmm, salty,' Cat mused, smacking her lips. Her hand was dripping wet where she'd stuck it into the wall of their makeshift tunnel.

'Cat, I don't-'

A long, deep rumble came from all around them. Subtle vibrations shivered through the floor and up through James' trainers.

'-think that was a good idea,' he finished.

Back behind him, the unmistakeable sound of a breaking wave signalled the collapse of their passage, and Tristan spun to lead the group in a mad sprint forward.

James quickly fell behind, as the others – unburdened – pushed on ahead. He could feel the water lapping at his heels, the cold, frigid wall spitting spume across his back as Tristan reached the door up ahead.

He made it through just as the wall of water cascaded down. Frothy foam exploded out the doorway in the half-second before it slammed shut on James' heels, cutting off the sound instantly. Only a small, bubbling puddle on the floor remained to speak of their harrowing escape.

'Oi, what the hell are you lot doing here?'

They spun together, as a bemused Unspeakable rounded the corner of the long, sweeping corridor that they all now inhabited. He was a short, round man whose robe dragged almost comically along the floor behind him as he walked.

'Don't tell me they let _another_ batch escape,' growled the figure. 'I'm gonna stake those bloody leeches for this.'

They didn't hang around to find out just what they were supposed to be another batch _of,_ instead turning and fleeing – yet again – up the corridor, away from the exasperated Unspeakable. At least he didn't want to murder them on sight. Yet. There was a chance the Unspeakables didn't even know what was going on below with the Steelhearts. Secrets within secrets. James wouldn't be surprised.

'Bloody hell!' Tristan cried up ahead, as their path was blocked by another Unspeakable. This one held a crystal goblet filled with something dark and gelatinous to his lips, and looked rather shocked at the intrusion.

Tristan threw open the nearest door, and led the group through into a flat, featureless room with a dust-covered, rocky floor. James kept his gaze fixed on the exit at the far end, a few hundred paces off. His legs burned and his lungs strained for air as Rain's weight continued to wear him down. Spells flew over his shoulders, giving the air a sharp, bitter taste. His friends stretched out the gap between them. Tristan was already at the door now, still dozens of yards away. James could hear the _thump, thump_ of their pursuers' footfalls. He could hear their yells – anger now, rather than surprise. The spellfire flew even heavier.

An unseen undulation in the rocky, rugged ground turned James' ankle. He fell, giving a helpless cry as the floor rushed up and punched him beneath the chin. He bit down through his tongue for the second time that day and spat out the mouthful of hot, metallic liquid that rushed forth.

A spell smacked into the dirt right next to James' hand, and he spun hastily away. He'd dropped Rain. There was no way he'd have the time to pick her back up and make it across the room.

But when he looked up he saw the door only a few feet in front of him. He had misjudged the distance, somehow. It must have slammed shut behind his friends as they bolted through to safety. He grabbed Rain by the collar of her worn, ragged shirt and dragged her backwards towards the door, step by aching step, as the features on the faces of the Unspeakables became clearer and clearer. Oddly, their anger turned to confusion, and then to fear. They stopped casting spells and began gesticulating wildly.

But James had no time to think on that. His hand found the handle behind him. He turned it, took a step backwards, and collapsed across the threshold in a heap.

He'd had no time at all to pay attention to the chipped, pitted sign edged with verdigris that was stamped into the faded, warped wood.

And that was how James Potter, dragging Rain along behind him, walked willingly and of his own volition, across the barrier and through Death's Door.


	38. Oath

It was the cold that James noticed first. It was the first sign that something was not quite right. The stagnant, gelid air drove needles into every inch of his exposed fresh. His breath misted before him, wallowing about in the lack of any sort of breeze.

He clamped his teeth shut to keep them from chattering as he surveyed the area he'd entered. This was no antechamber in the Department – of that he was certain. There was not a door in sight. Even the one he had entered through had faded away to nothing the moment it slammed shut in his wake. All around him was a flat, expansive plain. A slate grey sky offered a dull, source-less light. It left the landscape bathed in a monochromatic wash emanating from everywhere at once.

Permafrost soil crunched beneath James' feet as he spun on the spot. In every direction, the horizon melded into the iron-hued sky in a blurry, muted smudge that his eye couldn't quite discern. There was no sense of distance, yet at the same time, James knew that the open space all around him was interminable. It stretched on in every direction, flat, featureless, lifeless.

But nothing quite screamed _wrongness_ as much as the movement from the corner of his eye. Wherever he looked, everywhere he turned, something lurked there, just out of reach. It shifted and writhed. A pale, formless, shape. Or shapes. Shimmering softly. A silver-flecked glow against the formless grey that surrounded on all sides. But no matter how hard he looked, or how fast he turned, it was like reaching the end of a rainbow. Each time, it shifted further and further from his grasp.

The pool of softly furling mist gathering a hand's breadth above Rain's lips was the only indication that she still lived. James didn't know how much longer that would last as he cast around for some way out. The realisation of just where they were had dawned on him in a sudden, heart-stopping revelation.

Cassie's words replayed in his mind, a dim echo of her worried tone. ' _I wouldn't want to risk it…'_

James had walked, wide-eyed stupid, right through Death's Door.

The silence all around him was eerie. No, that was wrong. It went beyond eerie, to the oppressive, all encompassing, and terrifying. There was simply no sound at all. James' own breaths, and the rapid flutter of his heart were all that filled his ears, trying feebly to fill that fathomless void, but succeeding in nothing more than rattling around in the sea of nothing, the sounds all the more conspicuous in their loneliness for the size of the hole they failed to fill.

A gradual coalescing of mist at Rain's feet caught James' attention. This time, the shape did not disappear under scrutiny. James felt a chilling sensation sweep over him, and took a fearful step backwards before he could stop himself. A figure stood behind him, born of mist but now undeniably solid, looming more than two times his own height.

The figure seemed to be little more than a hovering amalgamation of faded, roughspun black robes, upon first glance. A deep, shadowed hood precluded any chance at discerning a face from within the swirling, shrouded depths. Where the fabric dragged along the ground, the edges were frayed, and faded to a grey-brown by mud and wear. What passed for the creature's arms were folded at its waist – a laughably demure posture for something so menacing.

'W-who are you?' James stammered. Though he had a fair idea.

' _If I do not answer, will it make this any less real to your mind?'_

The voice was the rasp of ash blowing across bones. It came from within the hood, with a sibilant hiss, but echoed through James' skull, as if the entire air spoke to him.

'What is this place?' James cleared his throat in a feeble attempt to make his voice sound less plaintive. He tried again. 'Where are we?'

' _It has many names among Muggle and Wizard, alike. Many attribute meaning to its existence, though there is none to be found. Some say it is a reward, others a penance. You are dead, child Potter, and this is the afterlife.'_ The creature spread its arms wide in an all-encompassing gesture that still revealed no hands beneath the myriad folds of its drooping cloak. _'Or lack thereof.'_

'It can't be. I am- _we_ _are_ alive.'

' _Your presence in my realm suggests otherwise.'_

' _Your_ realm?' James' suspicions were confirmed, and the knowledge settled on him like a heavy shroud.

' _I alone, am cursed to walk these plains for eternity and shepherd these listless souls. It is a task fit to drive any to despair. No more than my sins deserve, I suppose. And besides, it's not like there's anyone around to dispute my claim.'_

James thought he heard regret, in Death's voice. Or at least a bone-weary exhaustion.

'If this is your realm, then you can send us back. There must be a way. Surely it's happened before.'

Death was silent for a moment. The hooded gaze turned away from James in a gesture that was overtly pensive. When he spoke again, his raspy, grating voice was slow and thoughtful.

' _You are… the first.'_

Great. So James had finally achieved something his father hadn't – and it was dying.

Death moved towards Rain's recumbent form. He didn't take a step, so much as he glided across the ground. The distance between them just seemed to suddenly be shrinking. The tattered ends of his cloak trailed behind. He left no footprints or discernible impression in the earth.

James positioned himself firmly between Rain and Death, acutely aware of the feeble grasp the former currently had on her life _._ He gripped his wand tightly, gathering strength from its familiar feel beneath is fingers.

'You can't have her. You'll have to go through me, first.'

' _Oh, I will… Death comes for everyone. There is no truth more absolute.'_

' _Reducto!'_ The jet of red light burst from James' wand and tore clean through Death's figure. The spell didn't even stir the thick weave of his cloak.

Death didn't move, but a sibilant, wheezing sound filled James' ears, like wind stirring dust on a barren plain. It took James a while to realise that Death was laughing.

' _Some whimper in fear, some are indignant, some spit in my face long after they are within my embrace. But they die all the same, in the end: alone, and fearful.'_

James was terrified. He took a step backwards, but found himself backed up against Rain's unconscious form.

'S-send us back. Please. I'll do anything.'

' _Ah, bargaining. It always comes back to bargaining.'_

James' mind was racing. There was no sign of the door he'd come through. No sign of _anything_ on this flat, lifeless wasteland. As if there would be anything laying around that he could use as a weapon against _Death._

But something Death had said returned to him. He was the _first._ James latched on to that.

'And just how many opportunities have you had to bargain with someone who is actually still living?'

This paused Death for a moment. The figure crossed his arms once more. That eyeless regard was fixated on James. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking, but James thought he could read piqued curiosity in the pose.

' _Once. As you well know. I smell one of them on you still. You carry his Cloak. My Cloak.'_

'That's right,' James said, pushing the point. 'We are of the same blood, he and I.'

' _Blood means nothing, here. It dries to dust and ashes and blows away with the wind.'_

There was sweat slicking James' palms now. So much so, that it made gripping his wand difficult. His throat felt dry. He licked his lips nervously, finding them chapped and parched.

'Yet still, I have not heard a rejection.'

' _You think that a life lived in my service is preferable to death? The naiveté of the living ever staggers me. Your willingness to hang on to your fleeting existence will drive you to unspeakable acts. If only you all knew… then you'd be cursing me, rather than bartering with me.'_

'Send us back,' James said through gritted teeth. 'And I'll be in your debt. A debt you can call on whenever you see fit.'

James fought to keep his voice level. He wrestled with his terror to keep his eyes locked on the swirling darkness in the centre of Death's hood. When in truth, the fear ran wild within him. Like a beast unleashed, it rattled against the confines of his body, and everything it touched, it turned to ice. Frozen and brittle and oh, so close to breaking.

' _The price is everything to you, but as nothing to me. Very well, then, it is done,'_ Death spoke. There was laughter again, the sound of scattered bones rattling upon one another. Without warning, Death held out an arm. The sleeve of his robe fell away revealing a hand of dried, desiccated skin that was more bone than flesh. Tattered strips of skin hung loose like streamers of ragged leather. The joints of fingers were clearly visible. Tendons like tight, corded strings contracted as he beckoned with one finger.

James' wand slipped out of his hand before he could react. He lunged at it, but came short, and he could only watch in horror as Death took it in his cursed grip.

'No!'

He watched in horror as it crumbled to dust beneath Death's touch. _His_ wand. It had chosen him, in what had been the most exciting day of James' life, at the time. It had seen him through everything that life had thrown at him so far. Rescuing Rain, fighting Atlanteans, holding back the Maleficent Malady, and it was gone. Now little more than so much dust littering the floor of this blasted land.

Though Death had no features that James could discern, he felt the impassive, emotionless regard like a physical weight upon him.

' _A token of your new loyalty.'_

For the first time, a breeze stirred the ragged ends of James' shirt. Though it didn't seem to touch Death's cloak, it built in intensity until it was tugging and teasing James' hair. It was cut with the scent of rotting ice, and the rich, sweet smell of decay. From between his feet and Death's, a fine powdery substance of iron grey began to rise. Within it, sparkling traces of something brighter. An incandescent white, that glittered like so many stars in the swirling nightscape.

The swirling dust built in intensity, roughly abrading the bare skin of his forearms, until a single drop of blood was teased free. It joined the maelstrom, snatched away hungrily to partake in the chaotic dance that slowly, gradually resided as the particles flowed together towards Death's outstretched hand.

When the wind died down, and the dust had vanished, Death held in his hand a wand.

' _Ash and bone. Yours now, and forever. No other wand will work for you. You are bound to it, and it to you. A reminder of your promise. Your debt.'_

James reached out to take the ash and bone wand. It sat heavy in his hand, but it was a familiar kind of weight, as if his grip didn't feel complete without it. He knew instantly that the wand was made for him.

'Th-thank you,' he stammered, uncertain.

This time, there was no mistaking the rasp of Death's laughter. He threw his hooded head back and clutched his stomach. The humanity of the gesture was striking. The eerie sound filled James' head, rattling around inside his skull to the exclusion of all else. As Death faded from James' vision, and the wasteland around them along with it, he caught a trace of Death's parting words.

' _If you knew what I had in mind, you wouldn't thank me at all…'_

And then there was darkness. Disorientation punctuated by the sound of familiar voices. A gentle touch. A soothing word, and then, nothing.

* * *

Fatigue hit Fred like a physical blow, as the children were bundled through the door of the Potter household. Even their frenzied, stumbling flight from the Ministry was beginning to feel like a dream. The crack and pop of spellfire merely the echo of a memory. It was only the pain in his chest that remained sharp and clear as broken glass.

The night was a still one, and clear. Fred gladly left its cool embrace for the warmth and light of the Potters' house. He stumbled over the threshold, his footsteps stilted and mechanical, his movements somehow disconnected from his brain.

The children filed in first. Then the adults, then those who were unconscious. Or worse. Three figures floated behind Uncle Ron. James, Rain and Teddy. Teddy had Ron's jacket draped over his face and chest. Nobody would look at him, and yet, Fred found his eyes drawn again and again, iron to a lodestone on that unmoving, lifeless form.

A cup of hot chocolate was pressed into his hands, steaming and sweet. Warmth flowed slowly through his fingers, arms and into his chest. He was in the kitchen. Aunt Hermione had been awaiting them. She flung herself at Ron and Ginny, and even pulled Professor Longbottom into her fierce, tear-streaked hug when he tried to stand back a ways, obviously uncomfortable.

The children gravitated towards one another. They formed a loose group, all silent introspection and distant stares as they sought answers for the terrible things they'd witnessed that night in the bottoms of their cups of hot chocolate. None spoke. Their gazes returned again and again to James and Rain's bodies.

'The children, are they-?' Hermione turned towards them. Her wide brown eyes, usually so earnest and open, housed a flickering golden fire thinly veiled behind a wave of tender concern.

'We're fine,' Fred croaked. He looked around at the ashen faces of the group. Cuts and scratches, nothing more. There were spells that could mend cuts to the flesh, but for wounds of the soul, they would have to fashion their own healing, alone.

'It's Teddy, Hermione. You must look-' Ginny urged, a quaver of fear edging in to her voice. Hermione nodded, and squeezed Ginny's upper arm.

'To the lounge then, kids,' Hermione ushered kindly. 'There's plenty of blankets. You'll sleep well, now. The drinks will help with that. A dreamless sleep.'

Fred looked down and found his mug emptied. A soft, gentle warmth was beginning to spread caressing fingers outwards from the pit of his stomach. He felt his brain slowing, and his eyelids becoming heavy already.

The group shuffled in to the lounge as directed. Mattresses and blankets littered the floor. Not wanting to be alone, the five of them huddled together, and Fred sensed sleep stealing over each of them, one by one, as they drifted off, each holding the hand of another, huddled in the centre of the room near the softly crackling fire.

But though sleep loomed over Fred's foggy mind, it arrived only fitfully, and in small doses. The pain in his chest from the spell he'd been hit with still lingered, making every breath an agony, and leaving him gazing up at the ceiling overhead, hushed, frantic conversations from the adults in the kitchen drifting through to his ears.

'…need to find Harry,' Ron whispered, not long after the kids had bedded down. 'If things escalate, we'll need him.'

There were murmured sounds of assent, and not long after that, the muted _pop_ of Ron's apparition sounded. Cassie stirred in her sleep, in response. Fred levered himself up into a sitting position. Even in sleep, Cat wouldn't release the fierce grip she had on his hand, so he shifted around to accommodate her, ending up facing back towards the kitchen. Light leaked through the gap under the door, punctuated by shifting, darting shadows as Ginny, Hermione and Professor Longbottom moved hurriedly about beyond, tending to those more seriously wounded.

'Can't find anything wrong with James, or the red-haired one,' Ginny said. 'But they won't wake up…'

'…could be their bodies recovering,' Professor Longbottom answered.

'They both have the scent of… of-'

'I know,' cut in Hermione. 'But they're not. They're alive. They're here. They're breathing. They'll make it through.'

'And Teddy? We need St Mungo's, Hermione.'

'We can't risk St Mungo's, Ginny. Not now. If things escalate… the Ministry could be preparing to wage a punitive war on us as we speak. Usurping what was clearly a Ministry-sanctioned decision regarding Galatea Renshaw, in tandem with the attack on the Ministry. There were deaths, you said-'

'Only Steelhearts – nothing human.'

'Nevertheless. They could be knocking down our doors any minute. We _can't_ let anyone out of our sight.'

There was apology in Hermione's voice, even Fred could make it out through the door and the haze that gripped his mind. He couldn't' quite grasp the significance of what Aunt Hermione had been saying. War? Was retaliation by the ministry that big of a threat…? Then he recalled the blood-spattered stone as Ron crushed the life from the Steelhearts, and the sight of another riven through by a spell from Ginny, clutching feebly at a throat that barely held a head onto its shoulders…

Cold fear slid into the blankets beside him, and he felt it slip a chilling hand up his shirt to grip his heart and whisper soft promises of despair as he finally succumbed to the sleep and drifted off. Though there were no dreams, there was a constant, lurking terror that chased him through blackness unending.

When he awoke again, it was to a gentle tapping at the window. There was still movement in the kitchen. He could hear Hermione mumbling a string of incantations, and Professor Longbottom clinking and shuffling what must have been vials and glassware. At the window to the room, a regal looking owl tapped on the glass with its beak. It bore a bundle of letters strapped to one leg.

Extricating himself softly from Cat's grip, Fred shuffled across the room, wrapped in a blanket, to let the bird in. It didn't wait around after he released the letters – clearly, no response was required. He watched it take off into the night, disappearing through the opaque haze splashed across the night sky by the wards that Ginny was even now reinforcing, her figure discernible out on the back lawn with her wand in the air, suffused by a soft, pale glow.

The envelopes were thick, cream parchment of premier quality. He turned the top one over, and found it addressed to himself.

 _Mr. F. Weasley, II_

 _Lounge Floor, Mattress Nearest the Fireplace_

 _Potter Residence,_

 _Godric's Hollow_

He knew before he even saw the stamp that the letters would bear the Hogwarts crest. He slipped his thumb under the wax seal and broke it, his hands shaking as he did so. For a moment, electric fear won out over the fugue state of his mind, and Fred's eyes darted through the letter, skimming the text written in precise, neat handwriting.

… _expulsion effective immediately… assault on Ministry official… flight from justice revokes right to a trial… Azkaban… Calantha Merriweather._

Eventually, Fred could take no more. He cast his eyes over the rest of the group, still sleeping peacefully. He turned to the fireplace and tossed the stack of letters into the flames, watching with a grim satisfaction as they curled and blackened. The wax seals bubbled and melted, contorting into a mien of death as they seeped through the logs and became buried in the ashes.

'Shit.'

Fred turned at Professor Longbottom's curse coming through from the kitchen. He made his own way back down to the floor, and levered himself back into position next to Cat, wincing as the movement sent aches through his chest.

'…need to go,' the professor was saying. 'Or else we're at risk of losing Hogwarts. Between Zoe and myself, we should be able to hold them at bay. For the moment. But we _need_ Harry to succeed. It all comes down to him.'

There was a long wait before Hermione replied. Fred strained his ears, thinking he might have missed it.

'Somehow,' she whispered. 'It always does.'

With another faint _pop,_ the sounds of conversation died out through the door, and Fred could hold sleep at bay no longer.

'…yours is not the only light burning through the night, this evening.'

A new voice. Deep, calming, implacable. Like the gentle rumble of distant thunder. Fred rolled over on his mattress, facing once more the faint glow under door to the kitchen. He was careful not to disturb any of the others. Before him, the last flames of the fire had died. A low light smouldered from the heart of the ashes still left in the grate, giving off a pale semblance of its previous warmth.

'But what can we do, Kingsley? We don't want a fight. Merlin, we've still got the kids in the house!'

Fred saw the shadows shifting through the crack in the door. The clink of glasses sounded, and the gentle sloshing of a liquid being poured. Kingsley was ruminating on his answer before replying.

'They're as scared as you are, Ginny. There's not a Wardsmith in the country that is sleeping tonight. Ministry officials all over are preparing as if this was the first blow in an all-out war.'

'But it was nothing of the sort-'

'And we know that. They will too, eventually. It is their own secrecy that hurts them. The layers of bureaucracy that hide the truth in their convoluted shadows. So deftly hidden that for each one peeled back, another takes its place, and each time, they become more filled with uncertainty and fear until all within are too paralysed with terror to do anything but exactly what they are told. The left hand fears retribution from the right.

'In short, none at the Ministry – save maybe a handful – knew what was going on in those dark stone basements. Their response now is a mere frightened knee-jerk.'

'Then you must speak to them, Kingsley,' Fred heard Hermione urge. A solid thunk sounded as a glass was set down heavily. 'There's a peace to be brokered here, I can feel it. Albeit an ugly one. One that'll leave both sides unhappy with the outcome.'

A low, gravelly sound that Fred realised was Kingsley chuckling came through the door. 'Then that probably means it's a good compromise, doesn't it?'

'Please, Kingsley.'

'Aye, I'll see what I can do. I've a few contacts left still. Come the morning, you'll have your peace.'

Another _pop,_ and a pair of sighs sounded from the kitchen. Fred could practically see Hermione and Ginny sagging against the benchtop. Another clink sounded, followed by the sloshing of liquid.

'Fuck it,' Fred heard Ginny hiss. 'Just pass me the damn bottle….'

There was a faint greying of the sky off to the east, when Fred arose for the final time. The dreamless sleep potion that had been laced in his hot chocolate had worn off, and had abandoned him to a fitful sleep filled with dreams where he was pursued by figures made of broken glass. They chassed him through dark corridors, over and over. And every time, they caught him, brought him in to their jagged embrace. Jammed fists down his throat to tear out his lungs, leaving him choking on blood, coughing, his world one of red-laced agony…

He awoke to see a spattering of foamy blood on the pillow he'd been using. He scrubbed hard with his sleeve, but succeeded only in smearing it further into the fabric. He flipped it over to the cleaner side, and stretched, arcing his back and rolling his shoulders.

Through the window, the bruised purple-blue sky was riven with cracks of gold showing through the gaps in the clouds. The grainy grey outline of trees could be made out, shivering in the gentle breeze. The first and most eager of the birds were coming to life, rejoicing in night's release and welcoming the rising sun.

A few of the others were similarly stirring when the front door crashed open, sending Fred diving for his wand, his ragged nerves still in tatters. Cat jerked awake, elbowing Cassie in the process. Tristan sat upright, aiming a wild punch at nothing in particular. Clip just gave a snore and rolled over, wrapping the blankets tighter around himself. The boy could sleep through a hurricane.

But out in the kitchen, Fred heard exclamations of joy. Exhalations that were tinged with relief. Like the grim anticipation that had built up throughout the whole night was let out in the soft whisper of Ginny and Hermione's sighs.

Harry had returned.

Fred heard Ron's muffled voice cut short as Hermione gave a very un-Hermione-like squeal of joy. But it was James' voice that Fred heard through the door – stretched and brittle, though it was – that had him bolting upright and lunging towards the kitchen in a heartbeat. He didn't need to look behind him to know that all of the others – even Clip, this time – were right behind.

Fred threw the door open and was greeted by the wide-eyed stares of the adults, and Ron and Hermione locked in a fierce embrace.

The kitchen had been entirely repurposed over the course of the night, and was now looking like a triage ward at St Mungo's – that was, if the medi-witches all had serious drinking problems. The table had been Transfigured into a comfortable stretcher, and Teddy's form lay upon it. His face was entirely covered in bandages, so that Fred could see nothing but for his lips and nose, but his chest was rising and falling gently – he was going to make it. Another figure lay curled up on a makeshift bed in a bay window overlooking the back yard. Strands of red-gold hair tumbled out from under the covers, spilling over the floor and catching the first rays of the morning sunlight like a pool of liquid gold.

No fewer than three empty wine bottles, and one that had once held Firewhiskey, littered the benchtops. Ginny still clutched a half-full glass in one hand. She held fiercely onto her husband's shirt with the other.

Quick as a flash, James bolted from where he'd been busy hugging his parents and barrelled into Fred with a _whoop_ of joy. Pretty soon, all six of them were slowly sinking to the floor in one laughing, sobbing tangle of arms and legs and emotions.

Standing around them, the four adults looked down at the children, and saw themselves reflected in the inexorable strength of spirit that was on display. And though the greater part of them knew they'd never wanted this life for the next generation, they couldn't help but be fiercely proud, as they witnessed them stepping out from the long shadows they all had cast.

'Well, I dunno about the rest of you,' Ron finally said. 'But I need a drink. I damn well know I'm getting to old for all of this.'

There was a round of laughter, and a moment of sheepish glances exchanged between the children at their open and emotive display in front of the adults.

Glasses were handed around – even the children were allowed a small nip of Firewhiskey – 'they've bloody well earned it,' said Ron – just as the sound of more figures entering through the open door reached them.

Fred wasn't the only one who went for his wand. He saw Tristan and Cat both do the same, but a calming gesture from Harry stayed their hands.

'One would _think,'_ came an exasperatingly-familiar voice. 'That a lady might get a little help climbing all of these cursed stairs!'

'I was rather hoping that you were a vampire, Miss Sayre,' Harry called out, flashing the children a cheeky grin as he did so. 'And that without my invitation you'd be forced to wait outside, and we'd be spared the burden of your company. Besides, you're the one who chose to wear heeled boots.'

It was with an almost comically-exaggerated sigh that Wren Sayre – _Professor_ Sayre, Fred had to remind himself – entered in through the front door, supporting, upon her arm, a very much worse-for-wear Headmistress Renshaw.

As the closest to them, Fred set down his drink and darted in to help.

'Away with you!' Wren hissed. 'I'm perfectly capable of doing this myself.'

Harry caught Fred's eye across the room, and somehow managed to convey _see what I've had to put up with_ through his gaze alone.

Headmistress Renshaw – Fred had no problem think of _her_ as still being a teacher – brushed off Wren's ministrations and made her way over to one of the chairs which had been pushed up against the wall of the dining room. She eased herself into it with a groan, and gestured for Ginny to keep pouring no fewer than three times as she offered her a drink.

The once-Headmistress of Hogwarts certainly looked as if she had fallen on hard times. Her skin was stretched and taught, like faded parchment over the angled, jutting bones of her cheeks and eye sockets. Her eyes themselves were sunken and hollow, the whites now more of a faded yellow. She had a cloak wrapped around her body, as she was clothed in little more than tattered rags. Fred had known she wasn't _young,_ but the wear made her look far older than he'd ever envisaged.

But despite that, she still sat straight-backed in her chair, she still met the eyes of everyone in the room. She still sat with her shoulders back and her chin up, a veritable picture of the term _unbroken._

'A productive night all around, then,' Fred spoke into the silence that followed.

'Ahem,' sulked Wren. 'I should think _I_ deserve a drink as well.'

It seemed Harry was enjoying this. Fred once again found himself in the line of fire as the closest one to the bottle, and shuffled over to pour one for _Professor_ Sayre.

'At least _someone_ here has found their manners,' Wren huffed.

'Careful Fred,' Harry warned. 'If you get too close she'll bite you, and suck out your soul.'

' _I am not a vampire!'_ This time, Wren actually went so far as to stamp her foot in anger. Even Headmistress Renshaw gave a tired smile as the group chuckled.

Fred handed Wren the drink, noting the nasty mesh of half-healed scars that now criss-crossed the pale skin of her forearms. The dried blood in the corner of her mouth. Perhaps her assertion that she'd earned it wasn't too far from the truth. By way of peace offering, he offered her a smile as he held the drink out.

As thanks, she snatched it from him and sneered, perhaps mistaking the smile as being at her expense.

'If it's a soul she's after, she might have a hard time with Fred,' Tristan quipped from where he stood – a safe distance away – by the window.

'Careful now son,' Ron warned with a smile. 'You're almost outnumbered here.'

He, Ginny and Fred all glared menacingly at Tristan for a moment, before the entire room burst out laughing.

This time, the smiles made it all the way to their eyes. And thus, the healing from the night's horrors began in earnest.

'So… what's next?' Ron eventually asked as he drained the last of his drink.

'We should hear from Neville soon,' Harry said, checking his watch. 'When news of Galatea's vindication breaks, the Ministry control over Hogwarts will fall away. In taking so long to choose a predecessor, they've left the door wide open for the Headmistress to return to her role unimpeded.'

'I think,' Headmistress Renshaw added in a rasping imitation of her usual imperious tone. 'That the unfortunate death of a student while under Ministry watch should be enough of a black mark to ensure that they never get their power-hungry claws around my school ever again. Why, I can practically see the public outcry already.'

Fred saw James' mouth twist uncomfortably at mention of that. He could see the weight that bowed his friends back. That he thought himself at least partly responsible was clear to Fred's well-tuned eyes.

'That news is out, then?' Harry asked, raising a brow.

'I should think not. Not beyond the poor child's family. But if you lend me the use of your owl, I'll make sure the right people are the first to know.'

A devious little smile stole across the headmistress' features for a moment, and Fred was under no illusions that Galatea Renshaw wouldn't be back to her old, formidable self in no time.

'Merlin, but I love getting one over on the French,' Ron sighed, draining his glass and setting it back upon the kitchen bench. Hermione, you should have seen their faces! _Sacr_ _é_ fucking _bleu,_ alright. It was brilliant.'

'That won't be the last we hear from Valerie Dufour,' Renshaw warned. 'She'll hunt me to the ends of the earth, mark my words.'

Fred noted Harry looking like he was about to speak up and ask a question, but he quieted himself at the last moment. Fred shared a knowing glance with James – they'd seen a little more than they'd have liked to of just how fiery the relationship between the two Headmistresses really was, on a night that right now felt like a lifetime ago.

'Alright,' Harry announced suddenly, clapping his hands together. 'Rest. First watch is mine. Ron, I'll wake you in a few hours.'

There were a few complaints, but it was clear to Fred's eyes that all of the adults were in bad need of some sleep.

'Have faith in Kingsley,' Harry assured them. 'He's as good a politician now as he was an Auror in his youth. He'll make it _very_ clear to enough people that the tale of the kidnapping and torture of a fourteen-year-old girl getting out would be far more trouble than its worth for the chance to silence us for good.

'We're not a bunch of scared thirteen-year-olds any more. Our word against theirs actually _means_ something. We can do now, what we couldn't back then. What Dumbledore couldn't do for us to save Sirius.'

There was a round of bleary nods as the adults shuffled off one by one. They all found beds or mattresses within the Potter house – none wanted to be alone, despite Harry's assurances of their safety.

The children milled about in the kitchen. James seemed eager to stay near Rain. Harry shuffled off to sink into his armchair in the lounge and stare into the burning coals, as if seeking some deep, meaningful answer among the dying ashes.

'It feels like an empty victory,' James eventually said. He didn't meet anyone's eyes, instead staring at a point on the floor towards the centre of the group, who remained scattered around the kitchen, leaning upon benches or seated on stools and chairs.

Fred had only been in the presence of his cousin and best friend for a handful of minutes while both of them were conscious, but he was acutely aware that there was something… _different,_ about James. Something had happened to him and Rain when they'd been split up in the flight from the Ministry. It was something, Fred felt, that they'd have a hard time getting out of him. For all his good intentions, and desire to help his friends, James Potter had a habit of keeping a few, precious secrets very close to his chest. Especially where Rain was concerned.

Nonetheless, it pained Fred to see him so. As if James had been hollowed-out, somehow. And he was now missing something. Or perhaps that wasn't quite right. Perhaps there was something _else_ there. Something that enshrouded him, placing itself _between_ the real James, and the rest of them. It was something cold and ashen and lifeless.

'We did all we could, mate,' Tristan offered, absentmindedly polishing a scuff out of his wand. 'We were lucky to get out of there alive.'

'They took a year of her life,' James retorted. 'They did… who even _knows_ what to her. We're not even sure if she'll wake up again. And we're supposed to be _happy_ that they can just walk away? Be grateful that _they_ don't come after _us?'_

'But we beat them,' Fred echoed. 'We did what we came for. I don't think we could ask for any more than that.'

'It's not _enough,'_ James urged. Fred could see his fist balled in his pocket – gripping on to his wand, no doubt. Fred had yet to see him draw it since they'd returned.

'It's more than enough, James.'

Harry had reappeared in the doorway. Grainy-eyed and tousle-haired, but nevertheless alert, he surveyed the group with something that Fred could only call sympathy.

'One man can't seek to right every single wrong in the world,' Harry continued. 'It would leave him broken, spent, ruined by the sheer, soul-rending scale of it. Work on what you can control. Leave what you can't to the hands of others. We fought our wars, James, so you wouldn't have to.'

'But they-'

'Aye, James, they did wrong. It seems the Ministry is always cursed to do wrong in our eyes. Or perhaps the curse lays on us. Either way… Think on this: If I'd spent my efforts fighting perceived injustices of the Ministry instead of working to end Voldemort, the world would be a very different place, today. And I don't think we'd be better for it. Spend the effort where you're most needed, James. And right now, it's at the side of a girl who's just lost a year of her life. You – all of you – need to help her move past it. Help her forget.'

James had no reply. His mouth twisted in a way that said he was still disgruntled, but he'd worn himself out. The whole group lapsed into a quiet, pensive silence that stretched on. And little else was said for the remainder of the day, as each and every one of them sought – in their own, private way – to move out from the shadow of what had passed. To move on.

* * *

 _A/N: Just one final chapter to go to finish off book four. And in it, there's one final revelation left for our little gang of heroes. I'd love to hear your feedback if you're enjoying the story so drop your boy a review and let me know how you felt._


	39. Memories

It was four more days until Harry and Ginny deemed it safe enough to allow the children back to Hogwarts. Four days where a war of words was waged in the newspapers between the Ministry of Magic and the Hogwarts Board of Governors – all of whom seemed to have had a remarkable change-of-heart regarding the Ministry presence after receiving several late-night owls from a certain Headmistress of the school regarding the potential outcry among parents and professors alike.

It was Luna Lovegood's _Quibbler_ that eventually won out, with a brilliant combination of accurate reporting on the mistreatment of students throughout the year (now where might they have acquired _that_ information from?) and the suggestion of cloak-and-dagger conspiracies afoot that had the majority of the Wizarding populace crying out for a return of control to the recently-vindicated Headmistress Renshaw.

And so, the public outcry – shepherded deftly in the _right_ direction – forced the Ministry to let go. Shamed into a frantic backpedalling, it was, without doubt, the single biggest blunder in what had otherwise been a clinical campaign run by the sitting Minister for Magic. A ruthless man who had already all-but silenced his rivals, including the Potters and Hermione, over the past few years in preparation for re-election.

'Bloody unbelievable, the support we're getting,' Ron mused, sitting across the breakfast table in the Potter household, a steaming cup of tea in one hand and a slice of buttered toast in the other. 'We've gone from bloody Dark Lords in waiting to the saviours of the wizarding world in the space of about a week. I keep having to stop and shake folks' hands on the street.'

'They're probably making up for it,' Ginny suggested, sipping from her own mug. Her eyes weren't on the conversation, but on Rain's sleeping body. She had yet to stir since they'd brought her home from the Ministry. 'They've treated us like shit for the past few years. Since the Minister decided we were a _threat_ and wanted us out. The idiots are sucking up to you because they probably feel embarrassed. And so they should, too.'

James took a bite of his own toast, only listening with half an ear. The other children had returned back to their own homes, once it had been clear that the immediate danger was past. There were a few awkward conversations between the parents that went with their sudden, unexpected return, covered in bruises and scratches, but all had been mostly smoothed over, and the group were set to return that very day. James had packed a small bag of things for the last couple of weeks of term. His ash-and-bone wand was buried deep in the bottom of it.

'It's a little frightening, really,' Harry added, entering the room and accepting a cup of tea and a kiss on the cheek from Ginny. 'Publish a few of the right articles in the paper, and half the Wizarding world wants to either lynch you or crown you. With no real clue as to what _actually_ happened. No care to pursue the truth, too much effort to think about the situation in any serious manner. They just think what they're told to think. A bunch of broken Cleansweeps, just going where they're pushed.'

'The first casualty in war is the truth,' Ron added sagely, with a meaningful look over the top of his mug.

'Ron, that's half clever,' Ginny chided. 'There's no way you came up with that.'

'Read it in a book,' Ron mumbled, his traitorous ears flushing bright red.

Harry and Ginny both adopted an identical pose. Pursed lips, raised eyebrows, one hand on hips. It was uncanny, really.

'Fine, _Hermione_ read it in a book.'

James grinned into his glass of pumpkin juice, and wisely said not a word.

'Finish up quickly, James,' Harry urged him, checking his wristwatch. 'We'd better hurry, else we'll be late.'

James drained his glass and pushed back from the table. He cast another glance across the room at Rain's figure, and surreptitiously rose his hand to touch the spot on his chest where the Locket used to rest. He'd returned it to her, that first day after their return from the Ministry, in the hope that it was the missing piece to the puzzle of how to get her to awaken. It had, sadly, produced no visible result, and the gesture only succeeded in leaving James feeling like he was missing a part of himself, now. Like there was a presence that had been riding along with him all those months. He'd never truly noticed it at the time, but its absence was conspicuous in his thoughts.

'Are you sure we can't take her to St. Mungo's?' he asked for what felt like the hundredth time. In truth, while James was usually very appreciative – and often a little fearful – of Madam Petheridge's ministrations, he wasn't entirely sure that she would be quite up to healing whatever it was that was still ailing Rain.

'We've been through this, James,' Harry said firmly, but not unkindly. Ginny moved over to lay a hand on his shoulder. 'We can't be sure we can trust anyone who wasn't in our house the night you broke into the Ministry. Not to mention, Rain has already been kidnapped once – from right under everyone's noses. Who's to say that wouldn't happen again, when she had nobody to look after her in a ward at St Mungo's?'

James sighed and stood up, collecting his bag. He grumbled his acquiescence but in truth, felt anything but agreeable. He hugged his mother farewell, and clasped hands with Uncle Ron, promising not to generate any more national scandals in the few days he had left on the Hogwarts calendar.

A sound on the stairs, and James turned to see Teddy emerging from the lounge room. That the past few years had been hard on Teddy was an understatement of epic proportions. Cast out from his job at the Ministry and labelled a traitor, cursed by the virulent Infection that nearly claimed his life, the road to recovery had been a long, arduous one that had left a bright, full-cheeked young man looking old and gaunt beyond his years.

There was a faded, grey pallor to his skin that never truly went away, now. A stiffness to his movements that spoke of a hidden pain that never receded, and a jumpiness that made him seem flighty and cagey, even when he was sitting still.

The thick bandages wrapped around his head concealed the eye he'd lost in the duel with the man in the raven cloak from the Ministry. They'd had to pull a shard of stone longer than James' middle finger out from that wound, and there had been some malediction embedded in the wound that prevented it from healing, and precluded any attempt at resurrecting the ruined eye.

'Mind if I tag along?' he asked, shuffling into the room and flashing a watery smile at those gathered.

'Teddy, dear, are you sure you're feeling up to it-?' Ginny began.

'Quit mothering him, Ginny,' Ron sighed, rolling his eyes. 'Let the man do what he wants.'

Ginny huffed and scowled at Ron, but Harry relented. 'We could use the extra help transporting the girl.'

Teddy perked up a bit at that. At the prospect that he could be of use. James felt a rush of gratitude towards his father for it. They gathered the last of their things, levitated Rain's sleeping body to the centre of the room, and said their final goodbyes.

'See you in a couple of weeks, Mum,' James said.

And with a _pop_ the group of four Disapparated from the kitchen.

They arrived on the outskirts of Hogsmeade. There were no carriages waiting to take them up to the castle. No little dinghies bobbing obediently on the shores of the Black Lake off to their left. They set off up the meandering gravel path that led to the castle gates. Harry took the lead, with Teddy levitating Rain's body ahead of him. James fell in step with Teddy, following his father up the gentle incline of the path.

Neither one spoke for a while. Both seemed content to let the crunching gravel beneath their feet do the talking. The path they took wound around the shore of the Lake for a way, slowly climbing before breaking away from the muddy shores and making a switchback ascent up the hillside to arrive at the eastern gatehouse. Their breathing soon became laboured as the track steepened. A wind blew in across the Lake, unimpeded. It did little more than chill the beads of sweat that had begun forming on James' brow.

They halted near the top, to catch their breath. The track from here ran up a subtle incline through a small copse of pine trees and ended at the tall, imposing wrought-iron gates, currently hidden from their view.

'Blimey,' James breathed. 'Never noticed just how steep this damned thing is.'

'The Thestrals sure earn their keep,' Teddy agreed, clutching at a stich in his side.

'I thought you were a Quidditch player James,' Harry said from up ahead where he was looking irritatingly fresh. 'You should be running up these hills. What do they have you doing at practice, sitting around on your broom all day?'

' _No,_ we-'

'In my day, Wood had us-'

' _Ugh!_ Get on with it!'

James leaned forwards and shoved his father in the small of the back, and they set off once more.

'Does it still hurt?' James asked Teddy eventually, as they continued onwards. Rain's body was bobbing along gently ahead of them. Teddy had most of his attention on keeping it level. He turned to look at James with his lone, remaining eye.

'Not really,' Teddy answered eventually. 'Hermione and Ginny were great – they're actually really clever with healing spells, you know, though they never say it. It doesn't hurt at all.'

Though Teddy offered an almost casual indifference to the grievous injury, James felt that there was some darker undercurrent left unspoken.

'But it feels… different, now?' he ventured, sparing Teddy a sidelong glance. _Different,_ was an understatement, but it was the only way that James could sum up how he, himself, felt. His brush with Death still clung to every fibre of his being.

'Everything has changed,' Teddy agreed, a little hesitantly. 'I feel so… incomplete. I see things now. I don't know why. I don't know what it is. Things that aren't there; shapes, shifting in the corner of my eye. Of _that_ eye. But they're not there. Nothing is ever there.'

'Could you… you know… _Teddy_ it back again?' James suddenly felt silly for asking.

Teddy gave a wry smile and gazed off up at the rooftops and battlements of the castle that were visible now over the tops of the trees that lined their path. He idly scratched at the bandages that covered half of his face.

'Being a Metamorphmagus isn't quite as rosy and cheery as you might think, James,' Teddy explained. 'There's a cost to everything, to every change. I don't know if it was the same for my mother. I never had the chance to ask her. Maybe it's the mixture of werewolf blood, maybe not. I've never let anyone run tests on me to find out. But whatever it is, when I change, I hear things. Voices. Sometimes they're screams, sometimes they're whispers. I don't know which is worse. It's as if something is inside of me, trapped, pinned down and each time I change, I twist the stone that sits atop it.

'I tried, James, as soon as I realised what had happened. Victoire was distraught, you know. She asked me to change it back straight away. So I did. But it was wrong. My body knows, I think, that I'm broken now. Not whole. Any time I change to a face with two eyes – even just my own face – it feels off-balance. Uneven. Like I'm looking through a lens not meant for human eyesight. And the voices, they howl. Oh, how they howl.

'So in short, James, yes. I could do it. I could pretend to be whole again, for a while at least. But it would cost me my sanity.'

It was on that sobering note that they arrived at the gates to Hogwarts castle. The massive, wrought-iron edifice reared imposing and implacable before them, depicting the house logo in thick, banded steel. Serrated barbs adorned the top of the structure, their points gleaming in the morning sunlight, but James well knew it wasn't the defences he could see with his eyes that would prove most deadly to any attacker.

They passed through a smaller side-gate that opened at a gesture from Harry. Stood waiting for them, bleary-eyed, tousle-haired but wearing identical massive grins, was Professors Longbottom and Meadows. Standing back a ways, wringing her hands nervously and muttering under her breath in a steady stream was Madam Petheridge, the school Matron and Healer. She bustled over to Rain the moment her body crossed the Hogwarts threshold and slapped away any and all hands that tried to help, whisking her away back up towards the castle without so much as a "how do you do?" to the others.

'I swear these school matrons get weirder every year,' Harry muttered, idly watching the receding white robes of the Healer as she disappeared under an archway leading towards the Entrance Hall.

'I think it's to match the insanity of the students,' Professor Longbottom agreed.

Ordinarily, Zoe Meadows would have had a cheeky little quip to add to that, but, James noted, she was presently indisposed – busy throwing her arms around Teddy. James awkwardly looked away, catching Professor Longbottom's gaze, who raised his eyebrows knowingly.

'It's good to see you back safely, James,' Professor Longbottom said. 'The others have already arrived. We should make our way back up. I can fill you in on the official story as we're walking.'

This was clearly Professor Meadows' cue to disentangle herself from Teddy and join in James' escort, but she appeared to have fallen suddenly deaf to everyone but Teddy.

'Show me,' she whispered, tugging at Teddy's bandages.

'No,' he said, clearly uncomfortable. 'It's unsightly.'

'Piss on that. _Evanesco.'_

The bandages disappeared, and James caught a glimpse of the puckered, red weal that was all that was left of Teddy's missing eye. He made himself look away, the overwhelming embarrassment and shame on Teddy's features was too much to bear.

There was a moment of silence that stretched uncomfortably, before Zoe lay a hand on Teddy's cheek and said in a sultry tone, 'Merlin, but I love a man with scars.'

James was _fairly_ certain he heard Teddy mutter ' _Fuck it_ ,' a half second before lifting Zoe off of her feet and kissing her passionately – hungrily – before the three of them.

'Right then,' Professor Longbottom suddenly said to nobody in particular. He was rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. Neither Professor Meadows nor Teddy appeared to have heard. Harry was suddenly _very_ interested in a small leaf next to his shoe.

'Warmer today than I thought it'd be,' James said to the grass. The desperation in his tone was painfully evident.

'That's right,' Harry added, latching on like a drowning man to a sinking ship. 'Supposed to cloud over this afternoon, I'd heard.'

'Well, if that's everything,' Professor Longbottom said, checking a watch that didn't exist. 'We'd better make our way back. James will have lessons starting soon, and all.'

'But it's still breakfast- ow!'

Harry had stood rather sharply on James' toe.

They managed to finally extricate Teddy and Zoe, and James said his farewells, knowing that he'd be seeing his father and not-brother in a mere couple of weeks. Teddy hadn't re-conjured the bandages to cover his wound by the time he left, and there was something in the set of his shoulders, less hunched and defensive now, that spoke of a weight being released. He looked, despite the loss of an eye, somehow more whole.

James smiled as he watched their backs recede. He knew, deep down, that there was a reason he liked Professor Meadows so much.

'Come on, then, Potter. You've a busy day ahead. And a good weeks' worth of Defence homework to catch up on.'

 _Very_ deep down.

On the remainder of their short walk up to the castle, Professor Longbottom filled James in on what had happened since their night in the Department of Mysteries. The public outcry at the death of a child had forced the Ministry to retreat from the castle entirely – hopefully, never to return.

Galatea Renshaw had slid right back in to the role of Headmistress as if she'd never left, and promptly quashed Caspar Helstrom's dissident Glorious Sacrifice group. Without institutional backing from positions of power among the faculty, they were unable to cause anything close to the mayhem they had previously been responsible for, particularly when every minute of their free time was now spent in detention for "destroying school property and defacing the castle."

James wasn't sure whether Fred would find that hilarious, or he'd be miffed at missing out on claiming all the glory, but he was certainly sure that it was some welcome good news for a change.

Professor Longbottom also informed James that end of year exams were due to begin on the coming Wednesday. This was neither welcome nor good news.

They were set to part ways at the doors to the Great Hall. James could hear the sounds of breakfast in full swing. His friends might even be in there, waiting for him. The rise and fall of voices, the ebb and flow of the chaotic little undercurrents sounded so… normal to James. So uninterrupted by the events that had taken place over the past weeks. Events that had changed his life. The lives of all of his friends. It was hard not to be affronted by the sheer, overwhelming… indifference that the rest of the world showed to his struggles. Perhaps, there was a lesson in that for him.

One final thing stuck with him, however, and after bidding farewell to Professor Meadows, he turned to Professor Longbottom a moment before stepping in to meet his classmates.

'Professor, how did you find me, that night? How did you know I'd be in the Department of Mysteries?'

The professor gave a knowing smile. 'You wouldn't still happen to have that stone I gave you, the one from my mother?'

'Course, yeah. I figured it was a sort of good luck charm, so I've been carrying it around ever since.' James fished it out of the pocket, and dropped it into Professor Longbottom's outstretched hand.

'I must admit to telling something of a lie, James. This stone wasn't given to me by my mother at all. It's just an ordinary stone from the shores of the lake, same as any of the other thousands down there. What _is_ different, though, is that this one was imbued with a series of Enchantments that would let me know of its location anywhere in the world, so long as the one who held it was still alive.

'So, as soon as I'd thoroughly destroyed any trace of the samples of your blood, and the ghastly Ritual instrument the Ministry cretins were planning on using, I left Zoe in charge of damage control here and Apparated to find reinforcements and join you. We've all of us got memories of what can happen in the Department of Mysteries. I didn't imagine for a second that you were there for a late evening stroll.'

'Huh,' James said, eyeing the stone. He was a little put out he'd been lied to, but then, even he could admit he'd been a little… thick-headed in the days leading up to that night. Sufficiently so, that he'd even tricked himself into believing the Professor – one of his parents' oldest friends and allies – had been complicit in the Ministry plot against him. 'Well, you can have it back now. I promise no more dangerous adventures in the next two weeks.'

Professor Longbottom gave a chuckle, pocketing the stone. 'Oh, it's useless now, anyways. Something happened to it, down in the Department. I'm not quite sure what it was, but that stone should have followed you anywhere… I thought… it was like you'd died. That's the only explanation for it to suddenly have stopped working. Imagine my relief, then, when you were spat out on our laps in the main chamber.'

James looked away pointedly. A cold chill was creeping down his spine. He made sure to bury his ash-and-bone wand deep in his pocket, so that the professor couldn't see it. He offered a shrug. 'The Department of Mysteries is a funny place. Who knows what goes on with the weird magic they have down there.'

James could feel the weight of Professor Longbottom's gaze on him for a very long time. Like a hand resting on his shoulder, a firm, implacable grip guiding him inexorably to the truth…

Until James managed to shrug it off and look away. He said his farewells and turned towards the noise coming from the Great Hall, eager to slip free the fetters of the horrors from the past week and sink in to the warm embrace of the normality of Hogwarts daily life, such as it was.

He even managed it, more or less, for most of the week that came. He ate meals with his friends – still, minus Rain – and spent his free time split between teasing Cassie about the upcoming exams, and trying to cram in what he could to at least scrape through a round of "Acceptable" grades in his subjects. He'd told Cassie that, since _next_ year was OWL year, their marks this year weren't really all that important. That hadn't gone over well at all, and the ensuing tirade got all of them ejected from the library and a twenty-four-hour ban.

Despite that, James felt he managed passably in Charms and Transfiguration, he coasted through Defence and managed to not blow anything up in Potions, and even scraped through most of the Runes exam without too much issue.

James finally allowed himself to relax when the final weekend of term rolled around. A weekend which saw the final Quidditch match of the year – a winner-takes-all bout between Hufflepuff and Slytherin. Hufflepuff was one win up on Slytherin, but a Slytherin victory would give them the tiebreaker and, thus, the cup.

Hufflepuff's most recent victory had come over Gryffindor while James had been away from school, knocking his house out of contention to cap off a paltry five-win season and a year on the pitch that he would sooner forget. He still hadn't received word he'd even be allowed back on the team for next year.

James joined his friends – less Tristan, who was with the Hufflepuff team – to watch the match. He found his loyalties to be somewhat divided as both teams took to the air, and he offered an equal cheer for each. One of his closest friends rode for the Hufflepuff team, now. Tristan had been re-instated after having missed the previous match along with James. Add to that, the act of cheering for Slytherin went against every fibre of James' being. Every lesson his father and Uncle Ron had taught him, from the time he'd been old enough to understand what Quidditch _was._ Slytherin were the enemy.

And yet… there she was, taking to the air as her name was called. Her long, blonde hair trailed in a shimmering streamer behind her. She sat her broom with a singular grace among those gathered on the pitch. She was the artist, all others mere imitators, squatting in her shadow…

'Ah, shit,' James swore, as he came to the realisation that, no matter who won today, he was bound to end up a loser.

At least it was an entertaining game, with the Slytherin Chasers making up for what they lacked in skill with a fierce, gritty determination, hanging in there with Ava Adams and the burgeoning talent of her young squad. James tried to lose himself in enjoying the Chasing masterclass on display. Perhaps he'd been a little harsh earlier, calling Odette the sole artist on display, as Ava slotted through her _ninth_ goal of the match single-handedly, and bringing Hufflepuff out to a four-goal advantage.

But all of that was blown out of the water as both Seekers suddenly dove together down towards the centre of the pitch.

They were coming in from opposite ends of the playing field. Odette had the slightly flatter angle, but the Hufflepuff Seeker had a clear tail wind, which made up for much of the deficiency of his lesser broom. Still, Odette weaved seamlessly between the players arrayed across the pitch, all of them now essentially motionless, watching the scene play out that would decide the fates of their collective season. The Slytherin Beaters held some nerve, and sent a Bludger towards the Hufflepuff Seeker, forcing him into a wild evasive manoeuvre that scrubbed off any advantage he may have tentatively held.

It was Odette's for the taking now. James finally showed his true colours by standing up on his seat, cheering along as his friends looked on in despair as Odette closed in…

And Ava Adams appeared suddenly in her path. Polite, smiley, bubbly Ava Adams body checked Odette so fiercely that both of them were thrown from their brooms with a deep, heavy _thud_ that reverberated through the stands and was heard even over the rising crescendo of cheering.

There was a sibilant hiss, as hundreds gasped as one, but their mutual outcry was smothered by the roar of the majority of the stadium as the Hufflepuff Seeker – now unhindered – swooped in and snatched the Snitch, landing awkwardly and throwing himself at his captain, who was making a wobbly return to her feet and nursing a shoulder that was clearly out of its socket.

The stadium erupted in a sea of yellow and black. Dozens, then hundreds of students began pouring out of the stands to embrace the Hufflepuff team centred around their star Seeker and battered, heroic captain. James managed a mostly-sincere smile as Fred shook him excitedly, and even Cassie was jumping up and down and clapping, but he didn't follow his friends in their dash to join the victory hordes, instead making his much slower way over towards the base of the Slytherin stand, where there was no crowd at all, but he had seen a glimmer of green and silver robes and a flash of blonde hair making its way through the shadows.

It was slow going, making his way through the seething press. He heard Headmistress Renshaw's magically-amplified voice announcing the presentation of the trophy, and the cheering began anew. He was starting to worry that he'd have missed Odette, and she might have slunk off back to the Slytherin common room already.

There was a blessed reprieve as he entered the stand and swung shut the door leading to the pitch outside. The tumultuous crowd became quieted. The sputtering of torches in their brackets, and the distant hiss of a running shower became the dominant sounds. The music that was the backdrop to every post-match ritual. The rushing hiss and the warm crackle. Thick steam and a little smoke mingling in the air to create a heady, dense atmosphere that soothed the mind and relaxed the muscles. Allowed the rigors of the past match to run free and follow the rivulets of water down the drain, gone – at least until the next time they would suit up as a team.

He found her alone in the locker room. She had shed her Slytherin Quidditch robes, and sat slumped on a bench in a plain black t-shirt and shorts. Her head was leant backwards against the cold, tiled walls, eyes closed, hair spilling in a careless tangle down her back and across her shoulders. A large, purplish bruise had blossomed on the upper thigh of her left leg, which she held stretched out before her, clearly uncomfortable.

'Sloppy work from your Beaters, leaving you unguarded like that,' James said by way of introduction. 'They thought they'd done their job by knocking the Hufflepuff Seeker off course. They switched off entirely.'

There was no offering of apologies or commiserations. He'd known her long enough now, to know that that would garner only surly reticence. Dispassionate analysis of the match, however, had a chance of breaking through to her.

'T'was my fault,' Odette mumbled, without opening her eyes. James took a seat on an unoccupied bench across the room from her. By the sounds of it, the rest of the team had already filed out.

'Every Seeker gets tunnel vision when the Snitch is in play,' James said in what he hoped was a consoling tone. 'It's your team's job to keep you safe while you catch it. They-'

'But that's it, isn't it?' Odette said. She leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees, meeting James' eye for the first time. Her gaze was red-rimmed. Though she'd never admit to tears. 'They didn't. It's my fault for relying on them. For trusting someone else to do a part of _my_ job.'

James grimaced. The erosion of trust in a team was the first crack in a crumbling foundation. 'You can't do it _all_ Odette. It's a team game.'

'There's a lesson for you, James. Don't trust anyone. Ever. I thought… never mind what I thought, I was wrong. Only _you_ can do it, James. Only _you_ matter. Everyone else, they'll only let you down. Trusting people leaves you vulnerable, open to betrayal. And this-' here she paused to gesture at her beat-up figure – 'this is what you get.'

James gave a sigh. It was easy to forget the cold and isolated world that Odette existed in. She held herself to such an impossibly high standard that nobody would ever be able to stand shoulder to shoulder with her. Thus, leaving her alone. Except, it seemed, for him.

This was a battle James knew he'd never win. Not now, at least. So he changed tack.

'Over two weeks, since we last spoke. I thought I'd at least have earned a smile.'

'Smarmy git. The heroic departure. It was so Gryffindor of you I had to run off and shower afterwards, for fear of having caught something _bold.'_

James gave in, and was the first to smile. _Point to Odette._ 'Dragons to slay, days to save, and all of that.'

'And did you rescue the princess?'

'She's in the Hospital Wing right now.'

Something dark passed across Odette's face. So quick, it could have just been a trick of the light.

'I'd have visited you sooner but, OWLs, you know…' her tone had changed, more serious again.

'The regular exams were bad enough,' James agreed.

'Oh, you haven't seen anything yet. I can't wait for next year, when you come crawling to me, begging to help you with your studies. Promising that you'll to _anything_ in return…'

And just like that, it was more than just the lingering steam that was making things hot in the room between them.

James was unprepared for the rush of feeling that came with Odette's raunchy suggestion. That familiar reeling, off-balance sensation that he had only just been beginning to master. The appreciation of her true quicksilver nature that he would never be able to hold, let alone hope to control. The racing heart, the exhilaration. She was, James realised, everything that was _Hogwarts_ to him.

She was the wild rush that was life at the school. The crazy, mind-spinning highs, as well as the bitter, soul-searching lows. She was the thrill of the hunt that was trying to understand something he could never fully grasp. The wild ride that varied from life-threatening danger, to sweet, sweet reward on the flip of a Galleon. She was the normal he had been hoping to slip back into.

Perhaps, in more ways than one.

'Well then, if you're quite finished with your moping, I reckon you're in dire need of a shower, and I'm of a mind to join you.'

'Oh James, I've got all _kinds_ of kinks that need working out, after that match.'

James eyed her injured leg, and stretched his fingers in anticipation. 'Let's consider it a teaser for next year, then.'

'You know I can't abide being teased.'

The pair barely made it all the way to the stall, and the only reason the water was turned on at all was because James' elbow knocked up against the tap. Not that it bothered either of them. They had far more pressing matters on the mind.

* * *

James recalled being immensely grateful that the Drying Charm hadn't come up in their end of year Charms exam. As such, it was no real surprise that he was sloshing his way through the Entrance Hall about an hour later. Most of the celebratory crowds had dispersed. Many down into the basement to join in the revelries that promised to reach far into the night. Odette had remained behind, to "pick up the last few pieces of the season" as she'd wryly put it. And so there was a bit of an aimless meander to James' footfalls as he slowly made his way up the Grand Staircase, leaving a trail of drips on the marble in his wake.

'Did you choose to bathe in the Black Lake on your way back to the castle, Mister Potter?'

Headmistress Renshaw had appeared at the landing above him, one hand resting on the balustrade. She was bedecked in her customary black garb, with the stiff, high collar of her robe etched in silver scrollwork. Her black lacquered nails tapped a regular beat onto the decorated marble column, and her dark-painted lips were quirked in the barest of smiles. If James hadn't known to look, he would have seen her as back to her old, imposing self. It was only the barest, most subtle hint of a tightness around the eyes. A faint hollowness in her cheeks. A few extra wrinkles lining her mouth. But to the rest of the world, it appeared the Galatea Renshaw was back, in truth.

'Drying charms,' James said with a shrug. 'Can't get 'em right. Keep torching my socks off.'

'That would explain, then, why you brought no fewer than twenty-seven pairs with you to begin the school year?'

James had given up trying to figure out how the Headmistress could possibly know such things, especially when she hadn't even _been_ here. He simply gave a sheepish nod.

'I'd fancy a word with you, James, if you don't mind. Up in my office.

Although it was worded as a query, James well understood that it was anything but. Nevertheless, he played along with the charade, nodding his agreement as he knew he ought to.

'Excellent. Your current state of dress will hardly do, mind. _Siccumolate!'_

A gentle, warm breeze wafted over James' face. He looked down to find his clothes and his person completely dry. Not even his socks inside his trainers held any hint of damp.

He followed the Headmistress up to the entrance of her office. She'd taken to leaving it unguarded, since her return. A gesture to the students of being more open and transparent – two traits that the Ministry were constantly criticized as lacking.

Within, James took the proffered chair across the table from Headmistress Renshaw. The stark, almost militaristic lack of adornments didn't cease to amaze him. It left the room feeling hollowed-out, and made him feel rather small inside the large, cavernous space. Perhaps, that was exactly what the Headmistress intended.

'Now, I'm not going to grill you on your part in the death of the Pyke boy. I merely wanted to thank you for the role you played in my vindication, and ask a few questions about your year.'

James had felt a knot release in his shoulders at first, but at the mention of a "few questions" his hackles stirred again. Something in the Headmistress' tone…

'I appreciate your believing in me, James. You've shown your worth as a valuable and powerful ally, it seems.'

'You've always done right by…' James paused. He had been about to say, "by me", but that wasn't quite right. 'by the school.' He said instead.

'It is the primary requirement of the station,' the headmistress said, matter-of-factly.

'It was all of us, really,' James added. 'Everybody helped.'

'I am certain that they did. And yet, I am equally certain, that none of it would have occurred at all, had you not been there to guide them. No matter how subtle your actual role in the proceedings may have seemed, James Potter, it is without a doubt that you are the main driving force behind that group, and it has not escaped my attention.'

'They're just my friends,' James insisted.

'And you would do anything to protect them, would you not?'

'Of course.'

'And they, in turn, would repay the favour?'

'I- I think so.'

'Don't _think,_ James. _Know._ One day, your life may depend on it. Id like, if you'd so indulge me, to share a story of my youth. One that may shed a little light on the reason why I was held so long against my will in a French prison, and the reason why I believe that the worst from Valerie Dufour is still yet to come.'

'Go ahead.' Again, James well knew that he had little say in the matter.

'In my youth,' the headmistress began. Her face took on a faraway look, and James felt as if she were looking right past him. 'I had a small group of friends, not unlike yourself. Many of them, sadly, are no longer with us. But two notable exceptions are Egil Beck, and the charming Valerie Dufour.

'We came from different schools, different backgrounds. From all over the world. But there was one mantra that bound us all together. Knowledge is power. Something in which we all firmly believed. And so, we pursued it. Hunted it, like a starving wolf stalks its prey. And like the wolves, we ranged far and wide to find it. Libraries, halls and schools no longer held secrets for us, for we had scoured them all.

'It drove us inexorably to that old road that all knowledge-seekers eventually find themselves on. That burning question that will never, ever be answered. What have we lost? How much was learned, discovered, and subsequently lost to the fire and smoke of our tumultuous history. The past is glamorous in its unattainability. Behind the gleaming sparkle of its mystery hides many great secrets. Or so they would have us think. More often than not, however, it is a depressing litany of men, women, and civilisations rising and falling to the same mortal vices. Indolence, greed, ego. It is a dirge of an unchanging tune, and yet we never cease to succumb to it.

'Imagine, then, our shock and dismay, when we uncovered a truth left buried from the earliest ages of man. A truth worth changing the world for.'

'And what truth was that?' James asked, continuing to play his part.

'The only problem was,' Renshaw continued, as if he hadn't spoken. 'Was that each of us had a different view of just how it ought to be changed. And so we learned a second, immutable truth. One that our young, naïve, questing minds couldn't possibly have grasped beforehand. Knowledge is not only power. It is a _burden._ And this knowledge was a burden so terrible that it split our group asunder. Consumed the minds of many, the lives of most. So that today, only three of us remain.

'Valerie Dufour. Egil Beck. Myself. Though we disagreed on just what should be done with this knowledge, we each knew that to achieve our own desired outcome, we would have to alter the course of magical history irreversibly. And to do this, we would need the trust of the most important magical minds in the world.'

'The Ministry?' James asked, when the headmistress paused for a moment.

'The children. To raise an entire generation fit to bring about our change. For the minds of the old are withered, twisted and closed off. Too scared of great change, too fearful at what they have to lose.'

A thought flitted through James' mind, unbidden. A conversation he had had years ago with Holly. 'You're raising armies,' he said, echoing the words his friend had spoken.

'I'm raising a generation of children capable of seeing clearly, and able to act in a way they see as right when the time comes.'

James felt an uncomfortable knot building deep in the pit of his stomach.

'And so this truth that you uncovered…?' James prompted again.

Headmistress Renshaw got up from her seat, and glided around the table, coming face to face with James, where she squatted on her haunches, taking one of his hands in two of her own. She began tracing soft, regular circles onto his palm with one dark-painted nail, while staring fixedly into his eyes.

'Is not one you are yet ready to hear. But, enough about me, James. I would hear the tale of your _other_ adventures, this year past. Of the daring rescue of your friend. Of the secret bond you must share. Of just _how_ it was you knew where to find her.'

James opened his mouth to speak. Of _course_ he'd tell the headmistress. He _obviously_ trusted her. And the presence of her touch was radiating such a comforting warmth all up his arms and into his chest…

But then he felt it. The faintest brush against his consciousness. So slight, so subtle, that it might have been nothing at all. Ordinarily, he'd never have hoped to have sensed it, but his lessons with Professors Longbottom and Meadows had prepared him for this very scenario – the unwanted intrusion of another into one's mind – and, coupled with the shadow of vexation that flickered across Renshaw's face, there was no doubt in James' mind as to what had just occurred.

 _The Headmistress is a Legilimens._ And she'd been about to use her powers on him.

Trust be damned, she was using him. Using him to get to Rain, who – it appeared – must even now be at the centre of what Renshaw was planning. Somehow connected to this terrifying secret. Somehow, still, key to everything that was happening. The betrayal burned hot and fierce in his veins, but it was tempered with the fear borne of his situation. What could he possibly hope to achieve here, trapped as he was?

A bead of sweat trickled down the nape of James' neck. Did he dare lie to the headmistress? Would it even be possible? His skills at Occlumency were non-existent. Beyond the identification of an unwanted presence, he could do naught else.

He felt it return. A slowly increasing pressure, like a gathering headache, building from everywhere at once. The Headmistress' stare was like hot iron pokers boring into his skull.

'I… we…'

 _Bang!_

The door to her office slammed open, and in burst all five of his friends looking impressively winded and – on Cassie's part, at least – incredibly uncomfortable at their unannounced entrance.

It was Fred who spoke, doubled over with his hands on his knees. It was only two words, but they were enough to send lighting coursing through James' veins.

'She's awake.'

James didn't need telling twice. He bolted from the chair, snatching his hand back from the Headmistress without a second thought. He barely heard a collective groan as the others turned and followed hot on his heels, through the sparsely populated halls and into the Hospital Wing, completely unmindful of Madam Petheridge's blustering protests.

As the second-last day of term, there was nobody else needing treatment. Even the steady flow of stress-induced maladies had dried up now that OWLs and NEWTs were over. Rain was the sole occupant, her bed clearly marked by a series of thick, cream curtains hovering suspended around her to afford a modicum of privacy. The late afternoon sun was slanting in through the high, arched windows, illuminated her bed with an ethereal, godly golden glow.

James could see the shadow she cast upon the curtains. She was sitting upright.

'Please, gently children,' Madam Petheridge warned them.

But James had no ears for that. He darted over towards the bed.

'Wait please, I must warn you-' the Matron tried to implore them. And had James been paying more attention, he might have noted the sympathy in her tone, rather than the usual irritation.

But it was all as dust in the wind to the raging torrent of his focused mind as he threw the curtains wide open.

And there she sat. Looking rail-thin, and fragile as spun glass, but _alive._ Her golden-red hair spilled about her, gathering at her waist and catching the sunlight so it glowed like mercurial fire. That sea-green gaze was just as James remembered it – albeit lacking the sense of vertigo it so often gave him. Her skin was pale. Her lips were drawn. Her movements were slow and plodding, as if she was unsure exactly of how to execute something even as simple as shifting her weight, but it was undeniably her. Rain was back.

Cassie threw herself onto the bed, squealing with glee. James wasn't far behind. Then the others all piled on, smothering Rain in a confused tangle of exclamations, hugs and no few tears.

Eventually, they one-by-one extricated themselves from the mess, and assumed their positions around her bed once more. In their haste, they'd knocked down the curtains entirely, and James saw Madam Petheridge in the corner of the room, a hand to her mouth. Cassie had huddled in close, and was holding one of Rain's hands in a fierce grip, as if scared that she might disappear again.

Through all of this, Rain hadn't said a word, and the six of them all held an expectant breath together as they watched her lick her lips, and speak.

'Th-that was lovely,' she said in a voice more tremulous and brittle than James remembered. 'B-but, and I'm terribly sorry to ask, who _are_ all of you?'

* * *

 _A/N: There it is. The final chapter in book 4 of the James S Potter series. As always, your reviews and feedback are appreciated._

 _Note that, as with every book in this series THE NEXT INSTALLMENT WILL BE RELEASED ON FF AS A SEPARATE STORY. It will be called James S Potter and the Secrets of the Unmade. Look for it on my Author's Page. If you're keen on keeping up to date with the story, give my page a favourite/follow to get notified when the first chapter of the next book is released. I envisage this being 4-5 weeks from now, as I'm currently on holiday overseas, and there is still plenty of planning to go into book 5._

 _Your continued support is, as always, appreciated. I hope that book 4 was able to answer a few questions for you. But more importantly, I hope it has left you with a whole range of new ones. Perhaps they'll be answered in the next installment. Until then,_

 _SgtWhiskeyjack_


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